Deadly Visions (19 page)

The risk of keeping her alive was minimal, he decided. Plus, her death or disappearance would attract unwelcome attention. He still wasn't finished with his work here.

“Well?” Tess asked.

His hands fell to her waist.”Sure. Sounds like fun.”

Captain Henderson stared at the report that the cellular provider had just faxed to Joe.

“They got this to you already?” Henderson asked. “Didn't they need a court order?”

Joe shook his head. “The phone is issued to Monica Gaines's production company. They faxed Tess Wayland a waiver and she signed off on it.”

“Good.” Henderson held up the report.”Is this any help to you?”

“It's the nearest digital relay tower to where Monica made those phone calls. She called from the same place on two different trips.”

“And where's that?”

“Just outside Remington, South Carolina.”

“
Where?
”

“That was my reaction. There used to be a military supply distribution center there, but now it's pretty much dead.”

Henderson handed the report back to Joe.”So you know she's been there at least twice. You think she went there the other times she disappeared?”

“I don't know. I doubt I'll be able to find out from her. I just called the hospital, and she's unconscious. She may not live until the end of the day.”

Henderson nodded. “Howe and Carla are meeting with the crime lab guys today. How far away is this town?”

“Less than two hours'drive.”

Henderson nodded. “Why don't you head over there and see what you can find out?”

“Will do.”

Joe rolled into Remington, South Carolina, at a quarter past two. It had been a relaxing drive, but the tension returned when he saw the depressing town. An economic bomb had obviously detonated when the army supply depot withdrew.

Closed stores. Gutted buildings. Overgrown yards. The town was in the awful final stages of decay.

Joe glanced around the pothole-ridden streets. What could have brought Monica Gaines to this place?

The one area of activity revolved around a large bar called the Funky Tusk, which had faded Africa-themed murals on each exterior wall. It sat in the
middle of a large gravel parking lot that obviously had been a drive-in movie theater.

Joe parked and walked into the bar. The Africa theme was less pronounced inside, where it looked more like the generic seedy bars in south Atlanta. A half-dozen customers were scattered throughout the establishment, some playing pool, some watching a tabloid talk show on a single dim television.

Joe turned to the bartender, a thin, blond-haired boy who couldn't have been more than fifteen.

“How old are you?”Joe asked.

“Older than you think.”The kid spoke with a thick southern accent. “There's no prize if you guess my age, so you may as well order somethin'.”

“Diet Coke.”

“All we got is regular.”

“Fine.” Joe pulled out a photo of Monica Gaines and showed it to him.”Seen her in here?”

The kid studied the photo but finally shook his head. “Nah, but I usually only work during the day. Is she your wife? Did she run out on you?”

“Thanks for your concern, but no, I'm with the Atlanta PD.”Joe flashed his badge.

The kid put a soda in front of him. “Oh. Your drink's on the house, then. Sorry I can't help you.”

A jowly, gray-haired woman leaned against the bar. “Let me see her.”

Joe showed her the photograph.

The woman's face lit up. “That's the psychic lady, isn't it?”

He nodded.”Her name is Monica Gaines.”

“She's been here a few times.”

“Are you sure?”

“Play me a game of eight ball and I'll tell you about it.”

“I'm really not a pool player.”

“I could tell that about you. That's why I said eight ball. It's a beginner's game. Give the bartender your driver's license and three bucks, and I'll meet you at the far table.”

Joe did as he was told, and the bartender gave him a rack of balls. Joe walked back to the table and emptied the balls onto the table. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Deanna, after Deanna Durbin. Nobody remembers her anymore, so I'm stuck with this weird name.”

“It's a nice name. I'm Joe Bailey. When did you see Monica Gaines in here?”

“I've seen her a few times over the past couple of years. I thought it was her, but when I asked, she wouldn't admit it. She wore a cap and didn't have her glasses on. I was pretty sure I was right, but the other people here thought I was nuts.”

Joe lifted the rack and motioned for Deanna to break.”Why was she here in town? Any idea?”

“Nope. I'd go months sometimes and wouldn't see her. I don't know why anybody would be here if they had a choice.” Deanna fired the cue ball into the cluster and sunk the four.”I'm solids.”

“Did she come alone?”

“Usually.”

“But not always?”

Deanna set up her next shot. “The last couple times I saw her, she was with somebody. I think she met him here.”

“A local?”

“Nah. I never saw him before. Or since.”

“What did he look like?”

“Okay-looking guy, dark hair, slightly overweight, maybe in his mid-forties.”

“Do you think they were romantically involved?”

Deanna missed her shot. “No idea. It's not like I was watching them that close. The only reason I noticed is that I thought she looked a lot like the psychic. I spent nineteen bucks on her stupid hotline once and never even got to talk to her. All I got was some lame recorded message from her, then I got patched through to some dumb-ass girl who got everything wrong. It's your shot, Joe.”

He sunk the eleven ball. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“I don't know, maybe a month ago.”

“That recently?”

“Yep. You know, people usually come here to have a good time. But those two never looked like they were having any fun at all.”

Joe left town via Old Fenton Road. The cellular telephone tower that had relayed Monica's calls was located north of the city, so he decided to take a look in that direction before circling back and heading toward Atlanta. After his conversation with Deanna, he'd stopped in the town's two motels and one Waffle House, but no one else had seen Monica during her visits. Hopefully, Deanna wasn't just yanking his chain for a free game of pool.

Within five minutes, Joe found himself on a dusty
rural road. Fine grains of clay blew in the wind, coating his car with dark red dust. Definitely the sticks, he thought. Except …

A tall fence in the distance. He gunned the engine.

Barbed wire and ominous warning signs. The old supply depot.

He drove alongside the fence, looking at the overgrown fields and weather-beaten corrugated tin shelters that had once covered hundreds, if not thousands, of military vehicles. The shelters went on for miles, almost like rows of tombstones stretching into the distance.

He followed the road around a thick cluster of trees until, on the other side of the bend, he caught sight of a brown two-story building with no windows. Distinctive horizontal panels jutted out from its side. It was an older building, possibly World War II vintage. He studied it. There was something odd about its shape. It almost looked like a—

He froze as the realization hit him.

It looked like a crate.

He cut the wheel hard right and circled back to the cluster of trees. This
had
to be what Monica was talking about. An unlikely spot for a love nest, but if isolation was what she wanted, this certainly fit the bill. He parked in the shade of a weeping willow and climbed outside.

He moved through the trees and took another look at the building. The wood panels were chipped and faded, and the surrounding grounds were as overgrown as the rest of the property.

He stepped toward the chain-link-and-razor-blade fence. Much newer than anything else in the vicinity.
The depot had been deserted for eight years, but the fence still had a chrome sheen that couldn't have been more than a couple of years old. He walked around the back of the building. There was a new blacktop driveway marked with a fresh set of red clay tire tracks. The tracks had been laid since the last rain.

He walked around the perimeter, studying the ground beneath the fence. He spotted a clump of pine straw and soft earth, which he kicked with his toe. It moved easily. He kneeled and dug at the earth, opening a narrow gap under the fence. He lay on his back and pushed himself along with his legs, turning his head to avoid the sharp ends of chain-link. After emerging on the other side, he stood and glanced around.

He walked across a clearing and climbed three rickety steps that led up to the door. Nailed shut by large slats of lumber. He looked down through the steps and saw that they covered a crawlspace beneath the building. He jumped to the ground, knelt on all fours, and crept underneath.

He paused to allow his eyes to adjust. The sun was setting, and his only illumination was a shaft of light spearing through the trees. Finally he saw a pipe jutting down on the other side of the building.

He crawled toward it, trying to avoid the chunks of rock and concrete that littered the hard earth. Perspiration covered his face as he breathed in the still, musty air.

Finally he reached the pipe. He gripped it and ran his hand up to where it penetrated the floor above. He lightly fingered the hardwood floor, feeling its
smooth surface. Was there a seam here? He reared back with his elbow and struck the floor. The access panel flew off, and harsh fluorescent light jutted through the small rectangular opening.

He poked his head through the panel and found himself staring into a sparkling-clean bathroom that looked brand-new. A trace of pine scented the air.

He lifted himself up into the room, moved toward the door, and pulled it open. He peeked through the opening to see a long corridor that must have run the entire length of the building. The decor was sleek, with plush carpeting, subdued colors, and ornate sconces lining the walls. What the hell was this place? He may as well have been in the offices of a high-priced Buckhead law firm.

He moved down the corridor, glancing into the open doorways as he passed. Most were gray and institutional in their appearance, with a table, a scattered few chairs, and a mirrored one-way glass at the end. They reminded him of the marketing research labs he'd visited in his college days, where for a quick fifty dollars he'd sat with focus groups and discussed cars, clothing, or soft drinks.

Farther down the hall, the rooms were more cheerfully decorated, with bright colors, rainbows, and animal prints on the walls. A kiddie version of the observation rooms.

At the end of the hall, he stepped into an area that resembled a television studio's master control center. A large control board dominated the area, facing a bank of monitors. Three video cameras on mobile tripods rested in back. He was about to continue down the corridor, when he spotted a white, glossy
board marked with a schedule of some kind. The names on the grid were familiar: DAY. ISSER. IVERSON.MILLS. COHEN. GAINES.

It took him only a moment to realize that the names all belonged to well-known psychics—Butler Day, Jake Isser, Jackie Iverson, Ramona Mills, Sharon Cohen, and Monica Gaines—and this was a schedule of traditional psychic tests to be performed in various rooms in the building. Joe nodded to himself. Of course. This was a paranormal testing center. He had visited several others, including the facilities in Atlanta's Landwyn University, but nothing as elaborate as this.

“Don't move.”

Joe froze.

The voice came from behind him. “Turn around. Slowly.”

Joe turned and saw two men standing in the doorway. Both wore plain gray security guard uniforms, and each held a .38 leveled at his heart.”I'm a police detective,” he said.”I'll show you my ID.”

The shorter of the two men, whose name badge read GRIFFITH, raised his gun.”Don't move.”

“Does that mean you'll take my word for it?”

“No.” He glanced at his partner.”Check him.”

The taller guard, whose name badge identified him as HARRIS, unsnapped Joe's holster, lifted out his gun, and patted him down before removing his wallet and badge. He flipped open the badge cover. “It says he's with the Atlanta PD.”

Griffith glared at him. “This isn't your jurisdiction. You have no right to be here.”

“I'm investigating the Monica Gaines case.” Joe
pointed to the schedule. “She's been here, hasn't she?”

Griffith glanced at the schedule, then shoved Joe out of the room. He pulled the door closed. “This place is off limits to you.”

“Why? Is this some kind of control room?”

“The whole building's off limits. Now we have to figure out what to do with you.”

“I'll make it easy. Just give me my gun back and answer a few questions. Who's responsible for all this?”

“You're in no position to be asking questions.”

“Fine. Why don't you tell me what position I
am
in?”

Harris nervously spoke to his partner. “He's a fuckin'cop.”

“I know.”

“I didn't sign on for this. What are we supposed to do now?”

“I don't know. Shit. Let me think.”

Joe stared at the gun barrels trained at him. He was reasonably certain that in three quick moves he could grab one of the guns and put a bullet into its owner. But that still left the other guy free to make Nikki an orphan. There had to be a better way. He'd never shot a man and he wasn't eager to start now. “Look, you can call my captain at the Atlanta Police Department. She'll back me up.”

The short guard shook his head. “You don't understand our problem.”

“Then help me understand.”

“Shut up.” Harris glanced at his partner. “We'll put him in one of the rooms upstairs.”

The tall guard nodded uncertainly. “Then what?”

“Fuck if I know.”

They led Joe up a small stairwell to the second floor. More open doors. Living quarters, Joe realized, decorated with plush carpeting, beds, sectional sofas, and entertainment centers. The guards shoved him into one of the rooms and closed the door.

Joe tried the knob. Locked, of course. He surveyed the room, and it appeared to be identical to the others. A dormitory for psychics?