Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (18 page)

She waved away my concerns. "Don't worry about it—I'm not going to use mine or the library's. I know just the right person. I'll use hers."

"Who?" I asked, looking up.

Darci's face glowed with an evil grin. "Olive Martin's."

Chapter Twenty-One

I'd watched Darci drive away to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows, spying on her. Before I went to bed, I once again checked all the doors and windows. And to be safe, I left the front porch light on to discourage unwanted visitors.

Once in bed, thoughts of my argument weighed heavily on my heart. If it weren't so late, I'd call and apologize. But now it would have to wait until morning. My last thought before sleep claimed me:
Please, no dreams tonight
.

I didn't get my request.

Once again I stood on Abby's front porch, watching Grandpa and Henry Comacho swing back and forth on the swing. This time I saw Comacho's aura. It glowed in swirls of red, orange, green, and indigo, like Abby had described it. But Grandpa's aura shone with pure white light, the color of cosmic energy. The color made sense. Grandpa had crossed over and his aura reflected his spirit.

Their heads were bent close together, and this time, Comacho was doing all the talking while Grandpa listened closely to what Comacho was saying. Was he telling my grandfather what a pain in the butt his granddaughter was?

I knew the dream would shift and I waited patiently for the next scene to unfold.

When the scene changed, I found myself on a dark street. I was present, but not present. Somehow I wasn't part of the scene. I was an observer, floating in time and space, watching events beyond my control happen.

But a new element had been added to the vision—music. To my ears, it sounded like a song played on an old player piano. Strangely, the song I heard was "Pop Goes the Weasel." It played repeatedly in my head, but when the music reached the "Pop goes the weasel!" the note for "pop" was flat, discordant, harsh. Off-tune. Why?

A man walked the empty streets alone. He sensed someone followed. Stopping, he peered over his shoulder and listened for echoing footsteps. Hearing nothing, he walked on, in and out of the streetlights. He was anxious to get home. He'd had a long day. When his steps quickened, so did the killer's.

The killer felt his victim's fear and it delighted him. In his excitement his black aura curled around him. Fear made the chase more thrilling. He'd planned it all so carefully. He'd watched his victim for days. He knew all of the man's habits, routines. Soon the victim would be at the capture point. The white van the killer would use to transport his victim to the killing place was parked a block from the man's house.

The killer crossed the street, traveling away from his victim, and cut through the alley. He arrived at the van shortly before the victim. Crouching next to the van, he waited, the damp rag clutched tightly in his gloved hand.

The man passed the rear of the van and the killer sprang, grabbing the man from behind with one arm.

With his other hand, he held the damp rag over the man's nose and mouth. The victim struggled, but the fight soon left him and he slumped forward.

Balancing the nearly unconscious man with one arm, the killer wrenched the back door open and wrestled the man inside. He crawled in next to his victim and pulled the door shut. Opening the bag he'd placed near the back, he grabbed the duct tape and wound it around the man's wrists and ankles. The last piece he placed over the man's mouth. He would listen to his victim's screams later.

It took the killer a long time to reach his special place. Once there, he drove the van into the barn. Opening the door, he saw the victim was awake.
Good, it's more fun when they're conscious
, he thought.

The man tried to struggle while the killer hauled him out of the van, but he was still weak from the effects of the chemical the killer had used to render him senseless. His eyes, wide with fear, searched for an escape. When he didn't find one, a sense of doom spread through his mind. He was helpless as the killer half-dragged, half-carried him to a small room in the back of the barn.

The killer pushed the man on to a small cot, where manacles were attached to the cot's frame. Using his knee to hold the man down, he cut the duct tape and attached the manacles to the man's wrists and ankles.

Once the victim was secured, he crossed the room and lit the candles. The entire room—walls and floor—was covered with heavy plastic. But from underneath the plastic, picture glass reflected the candlelight. Walking back to the cot, he stood over his victim, admiring his work, relishing the fear in the man's face. He reached down, toward the man's face, grabbed a corner of the duct tape, and…

I shot up in bed.
Ringing
, I heard ringing. What in the hell was ringing? The phone—the phone was ringing.

"Hello," I said, fumbling with the receiver.

"Ophelia, this is Arthur."

"Who?"

"Arthur. I have some bad news—I'm at the hospital with Abby. She's been hurt."

The last thing I heard was Arthur's voice coming from the receiver dangling off the nightstand as I rushed out the door.

"Hello? Hello? Ophelia, are you there?"

They tried to force me to go home, but I wouldn't do it. I did manage to persuade Arthur to go home. He moved sadly out of Abby's hospital room, taking one last look through his thick glasses at her lying motionless in her bed.

From this day forward, I would be in his debt for finding Abby. He had tried calling her several times during the evening. When she didn't answer, he'd driven to her house to check on her. The light was on in the greenhouse, so he stopped there first. He'd found her lying on the floor unconscious and immediately called 911. Once they arrived at the hospital, he not only called me, but also my mother. Another debt I owed him.

The doctors said Abby had suffered a blow to the back of her head. It appeared Abby had been working in the greenhouse, trying to save some of her plants, no doubt, when an intruder knocked her out. Her brain scans were normal, but she was in a coma. The danger they said would come from posttrauma swelling of the brain. The next few days were critical.

Even though her condition was critical, the doctors gave me permission to stay in her room. I spent the night curled up in a chair near her bed, watching a parade of nurses come in and out, checking her vitals. Sleep was impossible. Memories of Abby and guilt crowded it from my mind.

Why did I argue with her? Will I have the opportunity to say I was sorry? Why didn't I feel her danger? Has my gift let me down once again as it had with Brian
? I hugged my knees to my chest.
Who did this to her? Harley, out of jealousy ? PP International's imported goons ? Was it the same person who had poisoned her plants
? Wiping the tears from my face, I stared out the window at the rising sun and tried to think what I should do next, but without Abby's guidance I was lost. Lost and afraid.

Hours ticked by and the sun climbed higher in the sky while I sat there in misery. Suddenly the door to Abby's room softly whooshed open and my mother breezed in. She glanced at me, giving me a small smile, and went straight to the bed. Bending down, she gently brushed Abby's hair back from her forehead.

"What have you got yourself into now, Mother?" she whispered. Straightening, she wiped a tear from her face and looked at me, sitting in the chair, still curled up in a tight ball.

"You look awful, dear."

I gave her a watery smile. "Thanks, Mom."

She crossed the room and knelt in front of me. Placing her arms around me, she hugged me tight.

All the fear and pain I'd felt over the last few hours erupted from me in gasping sobs. I clutched my mother's shoulders and buried my face in her soft warmth while my body shook. Finally, the sobbing subsided and I raised my head.

"Better?" she asked.

I took a depth breath and blew it out. "Yeah," I said, smoothing the last of the tears away. I picked up my backpack and rummaged around for a tissue and my brush. I found the tissue, but no brush. Oh well, instead I grabbed a scrunchie out of the bag and twisted it around my tangled hair.

Mother still knelt in front of me and eyed me speculatively. Little lines of worry wrinkled her forehead and her lips were pursed. It was a look I'd seen before—when I was a teenager—and she had suspected I'd been up to no good. Mother supposedly didn't have any psychic talent, but she'd always seemed to instinctively know when I was in trouble. Her scrutiny made me squirm in my chair.

"How's Dad?" I asked, stalling for time while I tried to decide how much information to give her.

If I told her too much, she'd call in the cavalry—namely my dad. And he'd be on me like stink. He'd be so determined to protect me that he wouldn't let me out of his sight. I couldn't find the killer and the person responsible for hurting Abby if that happened.

But if I didn't give her enough information, she could blunder into the middle of what was going on and be hurt like Abby. I loved my mother too much to let that happen.

"Did you hear me, Ophelia?" she asked, rising and pulling up a chair next to me.

"What?" I shook my head to clear it. "Sorry, I tuned out for a moment. What did you say?"

"I said your father was concerned about Mother, but otherwise fine. He sends his love, of course. All the flights out of Key West were later, so he drove me to Miami to catch an earlier flight." Reaching in her bag, she drew out her needlepoint and set to work. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

I made my decision—I told her everything. About the serial killer, Abby's fight with PP International, my visions, my dreams. It all came pouring out of me.

When I'd finished, she put down her needlepoint and took her glasses off.

"Well, you and Mother have been busy, haven't you?"

"I guess," I answered, my voice full of guilt.

"My first thought is to pack the both of you up and take you back to Florida with me." She gazed at Abby. "Obviously, I can't do that. And even if I could, neither one of you would agree to come with me. Or I could call your father."

I groaned.

She gave me an arched look. "Right, I agree. Your father loves Mother as much as I do, but he's never really understood the gifts you two possess." She stopped for a moment and picked her needlepoint up. "All righty, then. What are you going to do?"

" 'Do'? I don't know what to do, Mom," I said, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand. "I'm beat without Abby, without her guidance."