Bound by Suggestion (3 page)

I squinted up at him. “No, but I’d appreciate if you could assure my privacy. Please don’t give the press my name. The last thing I want is publicity.”

“Okay, but answer me this; how’d you know?”

I sighed. “I don’t know how it works, it just does.”

“The old lady waived her rights. Said she heard Ms. Devlin had signed a new two-year lease and decided she’d had enough of the noise. She lured the kid up here and made him quiet—permanently.”

“And the chocolate milk?” Richard asked me.

“The lure of a forbidden treat. Mrs. J ground up sleeping pills and had him drink it,” I said. “When he was dopey, she planned to smother him.”

I thought about it—remembered what I’d seen when I’d touched her. Fury gave her the strength to hold the boy, who’d struggled in those last minutes. She’d sealed his nose and mouth with a wad of freshly pressed linen dishtowels, pinning him against the floor until his body slackened, his small chest no longer heaving. Then she’d heard Paula Devlin frantically calling for her son. Anna Jarowski sat beside the dead boy for a long time—triumphant in the knowledge she’d finally silenced her intolerably noisy neighbor.

I looked up at Brewer. “I take it you haven’t searched the place yet.”

“Call me paranoid, but I’m waiting for a warrant. No way do I want this thrown out of court on a technicality.”

“You’ll find what’s left of the tricycle in one of the closets. She’s got a hacksaw. Been cutting it up and sneaking it out in the trash for the past eight months.”

Dr. Marsh elbowed her way through the crowd in the kitchen. She’d been gone about an hour—breaking the news to the boy’s mother, no doubt.

“How’s Paula?” Richard asked.

“I gave her a sedative. Now that her mother’s here, I think she’ll be all right.” She looked at me. “How are you, Jeff?” Her icy veneer had melted, her best bedside manner now firmly in place.

“Sick.”

“But you’ve got to feel good about what you’ve done.”

I frowned. “I made two women miserable. Why would that make me feel good?”

She seemed puzzled by my answer, but I didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. “Dr. Marsh, you said another psychic came here. What did she tell Paula?”

“That the boy was well and living in a small town down south, anxious to be back home with his mother.”

Poor Paula.

“Do you need me anymore?” I asked the detective.

He shook his head. “Go home before you keel over.”

I glanced at my brother. “Now would be a good time, Rich.”

I moved on shaky legs. Richard and Dr. Marsh steadied me on the stairs. We ducked under the crime scene tape and they pushed me through the throng of press as we headed for Richard’s Lincoln Town Car.

Dr. Marsh crushed her business card into my palm. “Call me.” Her voice was husky, excited, like a rock star’s groupie.

Reporters and cameramen swarmed as she slammed the car door. Richard left her to deal with them, taking off with a squeal and leaving rubber on the asphalt.

“Sharks,” he muttered.

I leaned against the headrest and considered my first consultation. By all counts, a royal success.

Then why did I feel so dirty?

It took two days for the hellacious headache to fade. Avoiding noise and light, I unplugged the phone and hid in my darkened bedroom.

Three days into my isolation, Richard crossed the driveway, marched up the stairs to my loft apartment over his garage, and read me the riot act for being inaccessible. I refused to feel guilty. It also occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from my lady, Maggie Brennan, either. I called her at work, got her voice mail, but decided not to leave a message.

The lady shrink was the next to call. I was developing a set of prints in my darkroom when the phone rang. Okay, so I’m a relic from a bygone age. I love my digital camera, but I also love to do fine art black-and-white prints made with old-fashioned chemical photography.

“Mr. Resnick? This is Dr. Krista Marsh. We met at Paula Devlin’s.”

“Yeah.” Not entirely rude, but not enthusiastic, either.

“I’ve been waiting for your call. I want to know more about your psychic gifts.”

“Sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. I met Paula as a favor to my brother. If you’ll excuse me, I’m kinda busy right now—”

“Wait,” she said. “I don’t want to dissect your mind, if that’s what you think. This is personal. I’m fascinated with what you do and I’d really like to sit down and talk to you about it.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Richard, of course.”

Of course.

“I was surprised by your low-key demeanor,” she continued. “No histrionics, no drama. Most self-professed psychics are deliberately vague. Your insight was astonishingly accurate. How do you explain it?”

“I can’t. It’s just lucky I was on the same wavelength as Paula, her kid, and Mrs. J. It doesn’t usually happen that way.”

“Would you be willing to talk about this in more detail?”

Using tongs, I picked up the pictures, dumped them into the fixer and swished them around. “Okay,” I said at last. I still don’t know why. Maybe it was the sincerity in her voice, the fact that she was Richard’s colleague, or the trust Paula Devlin so obviously placed in her.

“If you could come to my office, I’d be—”

“I don’t think so.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why should I inconvenience myself just to satisfy your curiosity, Dr. Marsh?”

“Call me Krista.”

“Look, Dr. Marsh, I’ll be home Saturday morning. If you drop by between ten and eleven o’clock, I’ll talk to you then.”

“I’ll bring donuts.”

“I prefer muffins. Nothing with bran. And I take my coffee with cream—no sugar.”

“I’ll remember that. See you Saturday.”

I hung up without saying good-bye.

That was stupid. I didn’t want to talk to her. Being rude hadn’t discouraged her, which meant she wasn’t easily intimidated.

Good.

I went back to the prints floating in the fixing bath. A thread of unease crept through me as I worked. I hoped I hadn’t made a big mistake.

Saturday dawned
warm and sunny, a perfect spring morning—the kind that makes you forget all the months of snowdrifts and frigid temperatures that Buffalo is so famous for. I’d awakened early and, feeling good, decided to do something useful outside. It was too early to plant annuals, but I didn’t feel like turning over the garden yet again. Instead, I washed the last of the salt off the three cars: Richard’s, his wife Brenda’s, and my own wreck.

I saved Richard’s silver Lincoln for last. Maybe I’d even spend an hour or so waxing it. God, I loved that car, something so far out of my price range I knew I’d never own anything comparable. But I got vicarious pleasure taking care of it and occasionally driving it.

I was hosing down the front end when a champagne Lexus pulled up the drive. Dr. Marsh stepped out of her car, clutching a large bakery bag and balancing two cups of coffee.

Dressed in form-fitting jeans, a scarlet sweater, and a bulky denim jacket, she didn’t look at all clinical. Large sunglasses hid her expressive brown eyes and, I admit, I wasn’t immune to her attractive face.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she greeted me.

“Breakfast was hours ago.”

I set down the hose, wiped my wet hands on my shirt, and joined her on the side steps of Richard’s house.

She handed me a cup and provided napkins. “How’s oatmeal raisin?”

“My favorite,” I said, reaching into the bag.

She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair like a headband, then removed the lid from her cup. “Richard told me you used to be an insurance investigator.”

“Corporate downsizing kind of ended my career.”

“And the mugging, too?” she asked.

“Yeah.” The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “How much did Richard tell you?”

“Not much more than that. Just that as a result of the fractured skull, you seem to have acquired an empathic ability. He said you’ve used it to help solve several crimes. Strong emotions seem to be the catalyst.”

“I don’t like meeting people because they expect you to shake hands. That usually starts it.”

“With everyone you meet?”

“Some people, like Richard, are blanks to me.”

“Would you shake my hand?”

“You haven’t killed anyone lately, have you?”

She laughed. “No.”

I set my coffee on the step, took her hand, shook it—and hung on. Her skin was warm and soft, her long fingernails professionally manicured. She wore no rings. Single?

“Well?”

I released her hand. “Nothing.”

“What did you feel when you shook Paula’s hand?”

I sipped my coffee and thought about it for a moment. “Desperation. She really thought she wanted to know what happened to her son.”

“Thought?”

“Knowing the truth robbed her of her hope.”

She frowned. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

“I have to tell you, Dr. Marsh—”

“Krista,” she insisted.

“that invoking this ‘gift’ comes at a price.”

“The headaches?”

“Yeah. Monster skullpounders. I’ve been to several quacks. They don’t call them migraines, because they’re not brought on by the usual triggers, but they sure act like migraines. I’ve changed medications at least six times in the past year. None of them have been entirely successful.”

“Is that why you don’t offer your services to the police on a regular basis?”

“It’s painful tapping into some stranger’s emotions. Why would I do it as a hobby?”

“To help people?”

I sipped my coffee. “You’re mixing me up with my brother. He’s the noble one in the family.”

“He mentioned your low self-esteem.”

“Did he now?”

“He worries about you. He feels you haven’t dealt with a lot of issues surrounding the mugging and what’s happened since.”

Heat flushed my cheeks. “Did he consult you professionally on my behalf?”

“No. We’re friends. He asked my opinion.”

“And that is?”

“I’m not looking to take you on as a patient, if that’s what you think.”

“Richard’s other big crusade is for me to become someone’s guinea pig. He thinks I’d make a great topic for a thesis or dissertation.”

“And that doesn’t interest you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a private person. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“And you don’t respect doctors.”

“Where do you get that idea?”

“Quacks?” she repeated.

I sipped my coffee. “I respect Richard. He’s very good at what he does. Except he’s obviously got a big mouth. Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“You aren’t his patient.”

I frowned. “You got me there.”

“What about other doctors?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t had many good experiences.”

“Have you sought therapy before?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask when?”

“No.”

“I take it it wasn’t successful.”

I shifted uncomfortably on the cold hard step. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Do you judge all counselors by that one experience?”

“I like to think I judge people individually. And I’d really like to change the subject. No cracks about being in denial, either.”

Her smile warmed. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“I’ve been accused of being totally humorless. Cynical, too.”

“Which is it?”

“Probably a little of both.” I polished off the last of my muffin. “Why are you really here? I know it isn’t my charm and good looks.”

“I was hoping I could appeal to that nobility you spoke of a moment ago. I have a patient who might benefit from your gift.”

“It’s a curse,” I corrected her.

She plowed on. “My patient is afraid to confront the emotions she feels.”

“How could I help?”

“If you could verify—convince her—she feels them, she might not be so afraid of them.”

“Why is she afraid?”

“Repressed memories of sexual abuse. If she could just unlock them—”

I stood. Rather I jumped up. “No, thanks.”

“But why?

“Because
I
don’t want to be a victim of that abuse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’d experience exactly what she feels. I don’t need to open myself up to all the psychos in the universe.” I took a breath, more angry than I had reason to be.

“Then why did you help Richard’s patient?”

“Do you see all this?” My sweeping hand took in the house, the yard, and the apartment over the garage. “Since I was mugged, I’ve been unable to support myself. Richard’s generosity has kept me afloat and I’m grateful. He asked me to help Paula Devlin. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”