Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (20 page)

"Okay, that's it," he said, taking an angry step toward me. "You're going with me to Bill's office. You obviously know something, but what you're feeding me now is the biggest load of BS I've ever heard in my life."

I watched, my palms sweating, while Comacho pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and purposefully strode toward me.

Crap! He was going to arrest me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Wait," I said, holding up my hand to stop him. "Did Brian have tape residue around his wrists? Did the bodies in other states have the five-pointed star on their foreheads?"

Comacho stopped, listening.

Encouraged, I continued. "Gus died before the killer could murder him. I think, of a heart attack—"

"No smoke in the lungs," Comacho mumbled.

"What?"

"Keep talking."

"He was angry at being cheated. He got something from the house, drenched the body, and set it on fire."

"Okay," he said, nodding his head. "I'll play along. If Brian and Gus weren't victims of the Harvester, who killed them—and why? Can you answer that one, Ms. Psychic?"

"No," I answered softly.

"What? I didn't hear you?"

I kicked a broken pot lying by my foot and sent it spinning across the floor. "I said 'no.' Don't you think if I did, I'd tell you? All I know is the reason has something to do with me." I sighed deeply. "And I'm scared, Comacho. I don't want anyone else close to me to die."

God, it took a tot to admit to him how scared I was. I hate being weak, hate being vulnerable
. So much for my pride. It hung about me in shreds now.

Comacho must've believed I was scared. He looked a little sympathetic.

"Look," he said and looked down at the handcuffs in his hand. "What you're telling me is hard to swallow. Brian Mitchell's death fit the M.O. of the Harvester—"

"Not quite," I interrupted. "The other bodies didn't have a star on them, did they?"

"Well, no."

"You didn't find any tape residue, did you?"

"No."

I pressed my advantage. "You've got to believe me. It's another killer. I don't know what his motive is and I don't know what it has to do with me—yet. But I do know he's still in Summerset."

"How do you know that?" he asked, staring at me.

Not answering, I met his stare with confidence.

"Okay, okay, let me suspend my doubts for a minute and rephrase that remark. How or where did you see him? In a vision? Or did you actually see him in person?"

"Both."

"Both?" His eyebrows shot up.

"Look, explaining how I saw him is kind of hard without sounding crazy at the same time."

"Like what you've told me so far doesn't sound crazy?" he scoffed.

I gave him a steely look. "You know, I didn't have to tell you anything. I could've sat back and let you muddle through this investigation on your own."

"I take exception to the word
muddle
?"

"What else would you call it? It's been five years since Brian was killed? And you
still
haven't caught his killer. I'd think you'd be grateful for new information."

"Give me information I can use to catch him and I will be," he said. "Nothing you've told me does that."

"I don't have any more information, but I will. I seem to have this weird mental connection with him. He's in my dreams, but I haven't seen his face. I think I am able to sense him, though. The other night, during the thunderstorm, I caught a glimpse of someone standing across the street from my house. I know it was him."

"He's watching you?"

"Yes. And I sense he's getting ready to make some kind of contact with me. There's a reason he's picked me and it's the reason Brian and Gus died."

"Yeah, I came to that conclusion too."

"Do you know why he's focused on me?"

"No. I don't know if I believe we have two different killers, but it doesn't matter how many there are." He stared off into space, thinking. "You're some sort of link to a killer. Right now the only link. And whether or not you're psychic…" His voice trailed off, and he tossed his hand in the air.

"Does that mean you'll let me help you find him?"

"No, I don't work with civilians."

"But you said I'm a link?"

"That doesn't mean I'm going to let you interfere with the investigation. It means we'll monitor you, watch your house, watch who approaches you," he said, slipping the handcuffs back in his pocket.

"You'll have me tailed?"

"Yeah."

"That's not acceptable. I refuse to cooperate," I said stubbornly.

He made a derisive sound. "Did I indicate you had a choice?"

I glared at him. "There are always choices, Comacho. You have me tailed and I'll figure out a way to lose them. You watch my house and I'll disappear."

"Oh, not only are you psychic, but you're a magician too, huh?"

"Ahh, well not exactly," I said, looking away.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" he asked.

I looked back over at him. "Umm—let's just call it a certain sensitivity to the world around me, okay?"

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind, if I find out you need to know, I'll explain."

"The same way you've explained about being a psychic?"

"You still don't believe me, do you?"

"No."

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

I crossed the distance between us and stood right in front of him. Holding out my hand, I repeated, "Give me your hand."

Reluctantly he extended his hand.

"No, your right hand."

He switched hands.

Taking his right hand in my left, I placed my right hand over our joined hands while my eyelids drifted shut.

I felt Comacho's energy seeping through the cracks in the wall around his mind.
Wow, reading him won't be easy. He has a lot of resistance
. I went deeper in my mind, strengthening the link between us.

Incomplete images of his life and his thoughts floated through the wall like pictures moving at a rapid pace across a movie screen. Comacho questioning me five years ago. A soldier in a hot desert. A little dark-haired girl, chasing a red balloon across the park. A young Comacho, in a shiny blue uniform, facing down a man holding a gun. A woman saying good-bye.

I released his hand quickly. His thoughts of the woman were too private for me to intrude. Shaking my head to clear the vision, I looked up at Comacho.

His face wore a stunned expression.

Comacho's appearance didn't surprise me—reading someone always scrambles their brain a little. I gave him a moment to collect himself before I spoke.

"There's a young girl you're fond of, a close relative, daughter, maybe. She's about four and she was chasing a red balloon across the park. You watched, laughing."

"My niece—last Sunday—I took her to the park. Her balloon got away from her. How did you know?"

"I read your thoughts. By the way, you have quite a wall up around your mind and you're hard to read. But do you believe me now?"

He ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. This is strange." Comacho's mouth tightened and he exhaled a long breath. "Okay, I'll think about what you've told me."

"You'll let me help?"

"I didn't say
help;
I said I'd think about it." He squinted and looked at me sternly. "But if you get yourself killed, don't blame me," he said.

"I won't, I promise," I said, relief bubbling inside me.

Yes. He agreed. He wasn't going to lock me up or put a call in to the nearest psych ward. And I was, at last, taking some action to find the killer. Joining forces with Comacho would work, it had to work.

"Right now, I'm going back to the hospital to check on Abby, but may I call you later? There's something I want to try. It might help me see the killer more clearly," I said.

Comacho rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "If I weren't desperate to find this guy, I'd…" He looked back at me and shook his head. Reaching in his pocket, he handed me his card. "Yeah, call me. My cell number's on this."

"Umm. I'd appreciate if you didn't share this information with Bill," I said, taking the card. "It would be sure to leak out somehow and I don't want the whole town to know I'm psychic. I have enough problems without that."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not telling anyone about
you
."

As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder at him.

"One last thing. About what I saw in your mind—I think you have a nice butt too, Comacho."

Chapter Twenty-Four

After leaving Comacho, I went to the hospital to check on Abby. The room was empty, except for Abby lying quietly in the bed.

I stood over the bed and looked down at her while I took her hand in mine. The hand felt frail and lifeless as I smoothed the skin over fragile bones.

"You're still in there, aren't you, Abby?" I asked, staring at her and stroking her hand. "I felt you. I heard your voice. I almost did it. Almost went against everything you've taught me."

I stopped talking and, closing my eyes, I remembered the power I'd felt there on the hilltop. My hand holding Abby's tingled with the memory.

"I've never felt anything like it. The energy was like a beast pulling at its chain. It would've been so easy to slip that chain, Abby. Set the beast loose to find the evil. Find justice for you and Brian. But it would've been wrong. I would have been using my gift for my own purpose." A tear snaked down my cheek. "Thank you for stopping me."

Suddenly I felt a slight pressure from her fingers. She was trying to squeeze my hand.

Before I reacted, the door swung wide and a nurse walked into the room.

"She's waking up," I said, whirling away from the bed toward the nurse. "She tried to squeeze my hand."

"I'll get a doctor," she said and hurried from the room, her rubber soles squeaking on the polished tile.

Moments later she was back, accompanied by Abby's doctor.

I stepped aside when the doctor approached the bed.

"She squeezed my hand," I said, not able to keep the excitement out of my voice.

"Well, let's take a look," he said, putting his stethoscope in his ears. "It could've been an involuntary response, but we'll see."

I stood silently while he examined Abby.

"Vitals are good," he said and took Abby's hand in his. "Abby can you hear me? Abby, squeeze my hand."

Nothing. No movement at all.

The doctor leaned closer. "Abby, squeeze my hand."

My fingers curled in tight fists while I waited and watched. No response and the disappointment rushed through me.

The doctor shook his head slowly. "Sorry," he said. "But her heart's strong and her lungs are clear, which is good. We'll continue to keep a close eye on her condition."

I numbly watched Abby, while the doctor moved toward the door of the silent room.

A moan broke the silence, a moan that came from Abby.

The doctor heard the sound, too, and returned to Abby's bedside. "Abby, can you hear me?" he asked in a voice that echoed in the quiet.

Abby's eyes shot open, as if startled, but they quickly shut again.

"Great. She's showing response to loud noises," he said, smiling. Picking up Abby's hand, he pinched the end of her finger.

Her hand jerked back and the doctor's smile grew wider.

"Good motor response." He turned to the nurse. "Her level of responsiveness is increasing."

I almost fell to my knees in relief, but his next words brought me out of it.

"She's not out of danger yet. And we have no idea how much brain damage there might be. But the signs indicate she's waking up."

"But the prognosis is good?" I asked desperately.

The doctor gave me a kind look. "The prognosis is positive."

The door glided open and my mother walked in.

"Mom," I said and hurried over to her. "Abby squeezed my hand and opened her eyes for a second."

My mother wrapped her arms around me in a big hug. "Thank God." Releasing me, she patted my face and smiled.

"Now, Mrs. Jensen," the doctor said, holding up his hand, "as I explained to your daughter, her responses are a good indication she's waking up, but until she does—"

"I understand, Doctor," Mother broke in, "but her condition is better than it was twenty-four hours ago?"

"Yes."

"Well, we'll focus on that for now."

"I don't want you to expect too much or have any false hopes," he said cautiously.

"We won't."

The doctor pursed his lips and nodded while he moved toward the door. "Good."

The nurse followed him, but stopped at the door. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled out an ivory envelope and held it out to me. "I found this laying on the floor near the door while you were both out. I imagine one of the aides dropped it when she brought your grandmother's flowers in."

"Thank you," I said, taking the envelope.

Mother had crossed to Abby's bed and was silently stroking Abby's hand.

When I joined her, she gazed over at me. "Did you find your answers?"

"Part of them." I hesitated. "Gus and Brian were killed because of their relationship to me."

"You don't know that," she replied, shocked.

I let out a long sigh. "Yes, I do, Mom."

"But I thought a serial killer murdered Brian?"

"Everyone did. It's probably what he wanted us to think. It's not the same killer; I've seen both of them. Took me a while to figure it out, but I'm positive I'm right." I sighed again. "Now I have to convince Henry Comacho."

"You talked to him? Did you tell him how you knew?"

"I had to."

Mother squeezed Abby's hand and, pulling up a chair, sat. I moved to the one next to her and flopped down.

"Well. Well…" Her eyes moved around the room while she tried to think of something to say.

In spite of the seriousness of our conversation, I chuckled. For the first time in my life, I'd rendered my mother speechless.

"You're surprised?"

"Yes. It took a lot of courage for you to do that."

"I don't know about courage, but I came this close," I said, holding my thumb and forefinger up, an inch apart, "to being led away in handcuffs."

My mother grinned. "I would've posted bail."

"Thanks," I said, returning her grin.

My grin faded while I thought about how to ask her my next question. "Mom, what's the deal with Harley Walters?" Reaching out, I placed my hand on her leg. "And please don't say, 'It's not my story to tell.' Harley could've been the one responsible for hurting Abby."

"I know," she said, staring at Abby's still form. "All right. Ten years ago I helped Harley's wife leave him."

"What?"

"He was drinking—a lot. And when he was drunk, he was abusive. It was the summer you went with your father to Mexico to help him with his research on the Aztecs. I was in Summerset, visiting Mother." She picked up her needlepoint and slowly followed the pattern with her fingertips. "For some reason, Elaine came to me. Maybe because I'd been a good friend of her older sister—"

"Elizabeth, right?"

"Yes, Elizabeth. Do you remember her?"

I nodded. "Sure I do. She came to Iowa City a couple of times when I was a kid. She died, didn't she?"

A look of sadness crossed my mother's face. "Yes, cancer." She took a deep breath. "Their parents were dead too. I guess Elaine felt alone, with no one to help her, so she came to me."

A look of disgust quickly replaced the sadness on her face. "She had bruises up and down her arms. And one eye was starting to turn black. She had their two little boys with her," she said, her voice cold. "I wanted her to go to the sheriff, but Elaine wouldn't, she was ashamed." My mother snorted. "In my opinion, the shame wasn't hers, it was Harley's. I thought about asking Mother to put a hex on him, I was so angry, but I knew she wouldn't." She paused and frowned. "We left that day for Iowa City. I found her a job at the university and a place for her and the boys to live. Harley's never forgiven me for helping her."

"Abby knew the story?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Wow. What happened to Elaine?"

"She went to counseling, eventually remarried, and had two more children."

"The story has a happy ending."

Mother made a face. "For Elaine it did. Not Harley. He was a jerk ten years ago and he's a jerk now."

I stood and walked to the window. Gazing out the window at nothing in particular, I thought about Elaine's story.

"Mom," I said, turning around. "Does Harley hate us enough to commit murder?"

"Oh, he hates us and he's a bully," she scoffed. "I can see him hurting Abby, trashing her greenhouse, but murder?" She chewed her bottom lip. "I don't know," she said finally. "I don't know."

I turned back to the window. Somebody better figure out if Harley's hate was great enough to kill for. Maybe I could talk Comacho into investigating Harley? Reaching in my pocket for my cell phone, I found the envelope the nurse had given me. I'd forgotten about it.

"Hey, here's the envelope the nurse handed me," I said, waving it in front of me.

"Let me see it," Mother said, holding out her hand.

She took it from me and flipped it over. "Hmm, it doesn't have a name on it. Do you suppose we should open it?"

"I guess. The nurse said she found the envelope in here. If it's not for Abby, we'll give it back."

"Okay," Mother said and tore the envelope open. "It's not a card." She pulled out the contents. "It's a newspaper clipping." Her eyebrows arched in surprise while she read it. "The clipping's from
The Hawkeye
, the university's student paper. You're mentioned in the article."

"What?" I asked, taking the clipping from her.

My eyes quickly scanned the article. It had been written five years ago, before Brian's death, when I still worked at the university's library. The clipping related how a girl, a student, had suffered a grand mal seizure while studying at the library.

"I remember this," I said with a quick glance at Mother. "A student went into convulsions. I was working that day and was the first one to assist her. I held her head while someone called 911. Later, she learned from the doctors the convulsion had been brought on by the medication she was taking for an infection. Why would anyone send this?" I flipped the clipping over. "Oh my God."

On the back, in big red letters, was one word: witch!