Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery (8 page)

“G
irl…
what
have you gotten us into?” Gil asked as M.J. took a corner a little too fast and the
tires of the rental car squealed.

“Nothing,” she replied impatiently. “Just keep your eye on the map and tell me where
to stop.”

Gil pointed to his right and a little behind. “That’s three-two-seven, so three-three-one
should be…M.J., slow down, you just passed it!”

M.J. stomped on the brakes and backed up fast. She’d had a strong feeling that they’d
be the ones to find Abby, and she’d also had a strong feeling that they should go
to Abby’s new house, so she hoped her hunch paid off. Once they were in front of the
house, she hit the brakes hard again so that they could consider the stately Mediterranean-style
home. “White stucco, blue shutters, and clay roof. This is it,” she said.

“They live
here
?” Gilley asked, ogling the house.

“Apparently,” M.J. said, backing up the rental even more to ease it into the drive,
which dipped down a short hill before curving off toward the garage.

“Those FBI boys sure make some coin,” Gil muttered.

“Dutch has a side business providing VIP security or something,” M.J. said. “Abby
told me he does really well from it. I think Milo is his business partner, in fact.”

“Milo’s a hottie,” Gil said. “And so are Dutch and Brice. Have you realized how good-looking
everybody at that wedding is?”

M.J. sighed. She seriously missed her own great-looking guy, Heath Whitefeather, who
was also a medium and who would’ve been a whole lot more help than Gil. But then,
that was sort of always true.

She had no choice but to ignore the commentary coming out of Gilley’s mouth and navigate
the driveway as quickly as she could. “Whose cars are those?” Gilley asked as they
swerved around to the right of the house where the garage doors were located.

M.J. almost sighed again with relief. There were two cars in the drive. A blue Mini
Cooper—which, from Abby’s Facebook page, she knew that Abby drove a Mini—and a black
Mercedes. “I think we found them, Gil,” M.J. said, guessing the black Mercedes was
Milo’s car.

Pulling the car all the way over to the far right of the other two cars, she was about
to cut the engine when something else caught her eye, and she gasped, pointing to
the rear door next to the garage where a pair of legs were just visible sticking out
of the doorway. “Gil!” she cried. “What’s that?”

Gilley leaned forward, and he too sucked in a breath. “It’s Milo! And Candice! She’s
to his side and facedown on the ground!”

M.J. shoved the gearshift into park. She then had to grab Gilley’s arm as he was about
to jump out of the car and said, “Wait! Let me call first!”

Gilley pulled against her grip. “They’re hurt!”

“What if they’re not?” she countered. That wave of dread filled her chest like cement.
Somehow she
knew
that the worst had not yet happened, and the house itself was giving off a very dangerous
vibe that she couldn’t quite figure out. “Gil, what if whoever did that to them is
still inside?”

Gilley blinked at her, and then let go of the door handle. “Call,” he said softly,
handing over her phone. “And don’t cut the engine. We may need to get outta here fast!”

M.J.’s fingers trembled as she tried to navigate the screens on the phone. She bypassed
the idea of calling Dutch, and headed straight for 911.

A
patrol car with the words “Call 911” stenciled in blue on the side pulled up and
parked right outside the window I was staring out of at the Starbucks down the street
from the bombing scene.

The sketch artist Brice had called for got out, and juggled her sketchbook and set
of pencils as she waved to the officer driving the car, who then left her to go help
his fellow brothers in blue.

While I’d waited for her to arrive, I’d kept my eye on Dutch and by that I mean my
intuitive third eye as well as my two physical ones. The sense that he was still in
terrible danger never wavered, and what’s more, I couldn’t seem to find the source
no matter how hard I intuitively “looked” to find it. It seemed near him and yet at
some distance, and that unsettled me more than I can say.

Luckily, the appearance of the sketch artist distracted me, at least temporarily,
from my worries. The sketch artist, Linda, was an earthy, soft-spoken woman in her
fifties with kind eyes. She sat with me for the next two hours while she and I worked
up a pencil sketch that I knew was nearly the spitting image of the face that Rita
had shown me in my mind’s eye.

After we were done, Candice called Brice, who came down to the shop to take a look.
“I’ll get this posted on the five and six o’clock news.”

“What’re you going to say?” Candice asked, then clarified by adding, “I mean we want
to be sensitive to her family, Brice. They may not know she’s been killed, and seeing
her face in a sketch on the news about a bombing is a seriously shitty way to find
out.”

“They may not know she’s a terrorist either, babe, but we have nothing else to go
on right now. Maybe it won’t be her family who sees the sketch. Maybe it’ll be a neighbor
or friend and they’ll call us with the girl’s name.”

My chin lifted at the mention of the word “terrorist.” “You really think she’s a terrorist?”

Brice studied the sketch and sighed heavily. “I don’t know what else to think, Cooper.
We have two dead girls, roughly the same age and race, who walked into two places
of business and blew themselves and innocent bystanders up. If it’s not a terrorist
cell orchestrating these hits, who the hell is it?”

Neither Candice nor I could answer him, so Brice headed off to talk with the school
of reporters waiting for some kind of a statement from the Feds.

Once he’d left, I turned to Candice and said, “I need an address.”

“Whose?”

“Rita Watson’s.”

“The beauty shop owner?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“I made her a promise to find her son and make sure he’s okay.”

Candice looked at me with surprise.
“When?”

“Today, while I was trying to convince her to cross over.”

“You
talked
to her ghost?”

“In a manner of speaking, no pun intended. Anyway, can you get me the address?”

Candice blinked a couple of times, like she was really trying to figure out how I
managed to have a conversation with a dead person in plain view of her without ever
opening my mouth. “Uh…yeah, but, Abs, are you sure you want to try to talk to her
kid
today
?”

That took me back a bit. “Do you think he’s already been told about his mom’s death?”
I asked.

“I’m sure an officer was sent to Rita’s house to inform the family that the beauty
shop had exploded, and that his mother was presently unaccounted for. They’d also
likely ask for her toothbrush.”

“Her toothbrush?” I asked, then realized why they’d need it. “Oh, yeah, DNA.”

What bothered me was the feeling that Rita and her son had no other close family nearby.
I felt strongly it was just the two of them in the world, which is what made her passing
so tragic. Her young son would be left to fend for himself, and if he wasn’t yet out
of high school, he could end up in foster care or, even worse, out on the streets.
“I don’t think I want to wait,” I said after considering it. “Her poor kid is probably
going to be holding out hope that his mom didn’t die in the blast, and waiting for
DNA to come back could take weeks.”

“You want me to come along?”

I nearly said yes, but then I thought about how the errand would take me away from
keeping an eye on my fiancé. “No, thanks, honey. I’m gonna try to get Dutch to go
with me.”

“You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?” Candice said. She knew me pretty good.

“I am,” I admitted. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but there’s this terrible
feeling I have that something bad is going to happen to him.”

“How bad?”

I had to swallow hard before answering. “The worst.”

Candice’s eyes swiveled to the window, and I knew she was searching the crowd for
my sweetheart. “He’s there,” I said, pointing to Dutch, who was talking on his cell
and pacing next to his car.

After watching him for a few seconds, Candice said, “Maybe we should all go to Rita’s
house.”

I offered her a half smile. “I’m sure Dutch is gonna
love
being babysat by the two of us.”

Candice shrugged. “I can get Brice to go too. We can explain it by suggesting we get
something to eat on the way back.”

“That could work,” I told her.

As it happened, it couldn’t work. Brice was ordered back to the office along with
Gaston, and Dutch would have been ordered there too if I hadn’t suggested to the director
that I needed him to accompany me to the Watsons’. “You think there’s something there?”
Gaston asked me in a way that suggested he was ready to launch an army of FBI boys
to her house to search it for clues if I thought it necessary.

“No, sir,” I said quickly. “I just want to make sure her son is okay.” Gaston hesitated
and I knew he was wondering why I needed Dutch along, so I added, “But you never know,
there may be something there that gives me more to go on, and if Agent Rivers is along,
I’ll be able to focus fully.”

Gaston nodded and called to Dutch, who came over to us (a bit stiffly, I thought).
After giving Dutch his orders, Gaston left us. I watched him walk away and had second
thoughts about what I’d asked him to order Dutch to do. My fiancé wasn’t exactly
giving off the warm fuzzies. “How long are you gonna stay mad at me?” I asked.

“A while.”

“Should I mark my calendar for a specific date? Cuz our wedding’s right around the
corner and I’d hate to walk down the aisle and say ‘I do’ to a guy who’s seriously
pissed at me.”

Dutch glared at me.

“Nice. That face will look great in the wedding photos.”

“Now is not the time to poke the tiger, Edgar,” Dutch warned.

“Oh, should I also mark my calendar with a good time to poke the tiger, then?” For
effect, I pulled out my cell phone and opened up the calendar app with a wee bit of
bravado.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he growled, taking me firmly by the elbow as he
moved toward his car.

“Hey, hey, hey!” I protested, nearly tripping over my feet as he hauled me along.
“Crippled person here, big guy!”

Dutch immediately let go. “Sorry,” he said, but his tone suggested he wasn’t so much.
He then stopped and put his hands on his hips, turning to glare at me again. “Why?”
he demanded. “Why did you put yourself in the middle of this when you
know
your crew told you it was dangerous?”

I searched for the right words to say. Words that would tell him how worried I was
about his safety, how terrible that feeling of dread was, and how terrified I was
about losing him. But all I came up with was, “Because.” (Woman of passionate, eloquent
speeches, I am not.)

Dutch stood there staring at me and waited me out.

“I’m worried about you,” I finally managed.

“I told you I’d be careful. I told you I would call. I even promised to try to call
you every hour,
and
I’m wearing my vest.”

“I don’t know that all of that is enough, Dutch,” I said, reaching
for his hand, but he pulled it out of my reach with a shake of his head.

“It’s almost five,” he growled. “And here I am remarkably unscathed.”

“I didn’t say I knew
when
something bad might happen to you!” I could feel my own anger starting to flare.

Dutch glared at me some more and I glared back. “Abby,” he said, “if someone wants
to take a shot at me, there isn’t anything you can do to stop it.”

The anger brewing in the middle of my chest evaporated and a terrible fear took its
place. “You don’t know that!”

“I do know that. I’ve been to sniper school, remember? I know how these hit men think.
He’ll pick a spot somewhere high, somewhere out of sight, and you won’t know he’s
there until after I’ve been hit.”

I physically flinched. The idea was too abhorrent. I closed my eyes against the image
of Dutch lying dead in the street, and my heart wanted to break right then and there.
“Please don’t say stuff like that.”

I felt his strong hands on my shoulders and a moment later he was holding me close.
“Edgar,” he said softly. “If someone really wants me dead, then I don’t know what
you can do to stop it. By being here you put yourself in danger. Don’t you get it?
What if you’re nearby when he takes his shot? What if he misses me and you get in
the way?” And then I heard Dutch’s voice crack. “What if he gets you instead?”

I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed hard. I wanted him to stop talking and just
hold me.

“This case sucks, dollface, and I want no part of it either, but it’s my job, and
right now I don’t have a choice. But you do. You can walk away and I can be careful,
and maybe at the end of the day, the good guys will come out okay.”