Depth Perception (15 page)

"Communicating with the dead."

"In essence, yes."

"What happens to you when you go into a trance?"

"Right before an epileptic seizure, some patients report feeling what's known as an aura. In my case, that aura is more auditory. I hear buzzing. My vision is affected in strange ways. I lose my sense of depth perception, colors begin to bleed. I feel out of control. There is a sensation of paralysis. Sometimes I have nausea. I usually lose consciousness to a degree. Most of the time I come to on the floor, or slumped in a chair. If I'm sleepwalking, I wake up right where I'm standing." Her gaze met his. "But every time this has happened, I write something. On the wall. On a piece of paper. A magazine. Whatever's handy."

"I can't imagine living like that."

"It was extremely frightening at first. I thought I was either epileptic or crazy."

"Why is it happening?"

"I don't know," She shrugged. "I have some theories."

"Like what?"

"I've done quite a bit of research on psychic phenomena. I've studied Edgar Cayce's philosophies. I educated myself on telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance, psychokinesis, and mediumship," She sighed. "I think something happened to me when I was in that coma. Something opened a channel that had been closed before. Combine that with the way Kyle died.  Before his time. Violently. There's a lot of injustice in that."

"You think he's trying to make things right?"

"I think he's trying to help me solve his murder."

When he didn't say anything, she looked at him. "I was skeptical, too. Most people are skeptics, and should be. Throughout history, there have been people who've claimed to be psychic but were not. Con artists who preyed on the bereaved. Charlatans who would do anything for fifteen minutes of fame. But while there have been plenty of fakes over the years, there have also been documented cases of psychic phenomena."

He smiled. "John Edward?"

She smiled back, but it was small and wry. "Let's take the police, for example. They don't like to publicize it, but there have been times when law enforcement agencies have turned to psychics for help with difficult cases. In 1971 a man by the name of John List murdered his wife and three kids in Union County, New Jersey. It was a brutal crime that went unsolved for several years. Eventually, the police turned to Elizabeth Lerner, a woman who claimed to be psychic. While she didn't actually solve the case for them, after List was arrested, the detective noted that a lot of the information Lerner had given them was correct."

"Coincidence?" he asked.

"Who knows?" she said, and continued. "In 1982 three teenagers were murdered in what was dubbed the Lake Waco murders. Two women reported .'visions' to the police the same night. But they were disregarded because their claims sounded so crazy. Later, desperate for a break in the case, the police brought in John Catchings, a psychic. Even though the police had been skeptical about the two women's so-called visions, it is documented that a lot of the details the women gave the police were correct. Details right down to the kind of tattoo the killer had."

"It could have been a coincidence," Nick said.

"What most people don't understand is that psychic phenomena are not an exact science." She sighed. ''That's one of the things that's making this so difficult."

Nick thought about that for a moment. "Have you considered taking this to the police?"

"Of course I have. But, like I told you, I have a history with the police in this town. Alcee Martin might be a good cop, but there's no way he's going to believe me."

Nick saw her point. He still couldn't quite get his brain around the idea of her being psychic. "Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong?"

''That possibility never leaves my mind. But when I think of the alternative ... " She shrugged. "With or without your help, I'm going to find this guy. I'm going to stop him."

"All by yourself?"

"If I have to."

Her voice and stance were fierce, but he could see that she had begun to shake. A small warrior ready to take on an army single-handedly if she had to. And even though he wasn't one

hundred percent sure he was buying into the psychic connection theory, he found himself respecting her strength, her willingness to go the distance.

Turning away from her abruptly, be started down the path. Neither of them spoke as they descended a slope and entered a grassy marsh. The ground was muddy, and she was beginning to lag behind. But he didn't slow down.

"The mud flats aren't much farther," he said.

"I'm not tired."

He looked at her and frowned. Several strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail, the wisps framing her face. Considering that she'd spent the better part of the last three years in a hospital bed, she was in good physical condition. They'd covered over two miles of difficult terrain, and she hadn't voiced a single complaint. But he could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the strain on her face.

"You push yourself too hard, and you're not going to be any good to anyone, including yourself," he said.

"I know my limits."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like carrying you all the way back to the truck."

Because he didn't want to think about what she might feel like in his arms, Nick raised the flashlight and illuminated the swamp ahead. "It's going to be a wet hike from here on out."

The beam swept over water as smooth as black glass. Fog rose like ghostly fingers, forming a mist that turned the swamp into a primordial world as silent and still as death. Spanish moss hung in tangled locks from ancient cypress. Knobby roots protruded from a watery carpet of duckweed like the arthritic knees of some long-dead explorer.

"What makes you think I can help you find this killer?" he asked after a moment. "What makes you think I want to?"

"You're the only person in Bellerose who has something at stake."

He thought about that a moment and wondered if she knew he was a convicted felon. "If it's credibility you're looking for,
chere
, you're looking in the wrong place. There are people in this town who will tell you I'm no better than the man you're looking for."

"I know you were in prison," she said. "I read the newspaper accounts of your trial."

Nick turned and gave her a hard look.

"You don't seem like the kind of man who would ... "

"Kill someone?" He sneered.

Her eyes were wide and cautious and he thought if he made a sudden move she would turn and run. He knew it was stupid, but that pissed him off. "Or maybe now that we're out here in the swamp you're afraid I'll turn my criminal tendencies on you."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Maybe you should be.”

When she only continued to stare at him, he cursed. "In case you're wondering, I didn't kill anyone," he growled.

An uncomfortable silence descended. The volume of the swamp rose to a fever pitch. Her face was a pale oval in the darkness. He could make out the dark slash of her eyes. A smudge of dirt on her cheek. The pout of her full mouth. The swell of her breasts beneath her T-shirt ...

As if realizing the direction his thoughts had taken, she turned away and stepped into the knee-deep water. Nick set the beam on her ass and admired the view for a moment, all too aware that she was built just the way he liked, trim but with plenty of interesting curves.

"What the hell are you doing?" he muttered under his breath.

She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. "What did you say?"

Cold sank into his feet and cal yes when he stepped into the water and started toward her. "I said we're damn fools for being out here in the swamp without proper gear."

"How much farther to the Gautier Mud Flats?" she asked.

"Not far. There used to be a duck blind just ahead," he said.

"It’ll be dry. We can rest there."

"You know this area?"

"I used to come here as a kid."

They slogged through the water for several minutes in silence. Around them, the bayou was transforming with dawn. Birdsong and the
kok-kok-kok
of the least bittern echoed through the forest. The reds and oranges of sunrise blazed like a distant fire on the eastern horizon. Ahead, Nick spotted the duck blind. Set four feet above the water's surface, it was constructed of weathered cypress planks. Directly below, an abandoned pirogue sat rotting in a foot of water, its flat bottom filled with duckweed and lily pads.

Stopping next to the blind, Nick cupped his mouth with his hands and shouted. "Ricky Arnaud' Ricky! Can you hear us, son?"

A great blue heron took flight at the sudden noise. For a full minute, they stood in the water and listened for an answer that didn't come.

"We should have brought a whistle," Nick said.

Nat brought her hands to her mouth. "Ricky!"

The hoarseness of her voice drew his gaze. She was soaked from the hips down. The smear of mud on her face was dark against her pale complexion. She looked cold and exhausted

and an inch away from dropping where she stood.

"He's not here," he said after a moment,

Ignoring him, she walked a few feet away and called out again. "Ricky! Are you there? Ricky!"

"Nat, there's nobody here. We're wasting our time."

She shot him an incredulous look. "I didn't hike all the way out here just to turn around and leave."

"If he was here, he would have answered."

"Unless he's hurt or ... " Letting her words trail, she started toward the blind. "I'm going to look around."

Nick put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Nat, we don't have gear. We don't have a map. We don't have a whistle or GPS for coordinates. We don't even know if he's in the area."

"He's here. damn it." She waded through knee-deep water, looking around as if she might spot the little boy at any moment. “I know you don't believe me, but I feel it, Nick. He's here."

Even from twenty feet away, Nick could see that she was trembling with cold. Watching her, he wondered if she was about to slide down some slippery slope. If maybe he was making things worse by encouraging her. Seeing the hope and determination in her eyes, he felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her. Was she out in this godforsaken swamp looking for Ricky Arnaud? Or was she really looking for her own little boy, who would never be coming back?

"Nat, we've been out in the swamp for two hours. We've given it our best shot. It's time to go."

She spun and started toward him, her eyes furious. "You agreed to do this, damn it. The least you could do is keep your word."

"You're wet and cold and exhausted." He gestured toward her clothes. "Look at you. You're shivering. This is crazy."

She stopped less than a foot away and got in his face. "I don't need you to finish this. My sense of direction is good. I can find my way back."

"I'm sure that's what Gautier was thinking back in 1918."

Wishing he was anywhere but here, Nick stepped back and looked away. He did a quick double take upon spotting the patch of red.

Nat's gaze followed his. "What is it?"

But Nick had already started toward the speck of color. His heart rolled and began to drum when he realized it was a child's shoe. He heard her moving through the water behind him, but he didn't stop until he reached it.

The little high-top sneaker was lying on its side in the mud and duckweed near the pirogue, its sole facing him, the shoestrings still tied. He stared at it, not wanting to believe the shoe belonged to Ricky Arnaud, knowing in his heart it did.

"
Le Bon Dieu mait la main.
” God help.

She came up beside him. "It's his."

"It doesn't look like it's been here long," he said.

She leaned down as if to touch it, but he put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't touch it." He didn't voice what he was thinking, but he knew this could be a crime scene.

Around them, the swamp had gone silent. Nick stood still, listening, his eyes scanning the area, trying in vain to penetrate the shadows playing hide-and-seek within the maze of trees and fog. After a moment, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he raised his hands to cup his mouth. "Ricky! Ricky Arnaud!"

Next to him. Nat turned in a slow circle. "Ricky!"

They called out to the boy for five minutes. But Nick's mind had already jumped ahead to all the terrible things that could befall a little boy in the swamp. When he'd been a kid, Dutch had forbidden him to come here under the threat of his belt. Dutch had told him tales of alligators swallowing children whole and of mud pits sucking grown men to their deaths. But not even fear of his father's wrath had been enough to keep Nick away.

Wishing for a whistle, he waded through the water, skirting the outer perimeter of the clearing. "Ricky! Answer us, son!"

He circled around to where Nat stood and glanced down at the sneaker. It looked incredibly out of place lying in the duckweed and covered with mud. The image made him think of the terrible fate his own son had met just a few miles away.

Banking the brutal slash of pain, he glanced at Nat. She was staring at the sneaker as if trying to wrest the mystery from it by the sheer force of her will. "What was he doing out here all by himself?" she whispered.

''This isn't the kind of place an eight-year-old boy would go alone," Nick agreed.

"Unless he wasn't alone."

"You don't know that." But the hairs at his nape prickled nonetheless.

"What if someone lured him out here?"

A dozen arguments entered his mind. But Nick didn't voice them. He may not believe in psychic phenomena in general terms, but he didn't believe in coincidences, either. That put him squarely in a place he didn't want to be.

"I don't want to get into this with you right now," he said. "We need to call the police and let them handle this. Maybe they'll want to move their search to this area. Get a few guys out here in boats." He held out his hand. "Give me your phone."

She unclipped her cell from her belt and handed it to him.

He punched in numbers. "You know the cops are going to have some questions for us."

"We didn't do anything wrong."