Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery (6 page)

I smiled winningly.

His lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Brace yourself,” I muttered to Candice, who edged a little closer to me.

Dutch then said something to Brice, standing several feet away, and Harrison pretended
not to hear him. Undeterred, Dutch walked over to him and said something while pointing
sternly at the two of us.

Harrison turned away from the other agent he’d been talking to and crossed his arms,
adopting that hard, unreadable expression that used to drive me crazy. I quickened
my pace, because I suspected that Dutch was about to cross a line, and while Brice
had some measure of patience for that because Dutch was also his close friend, he’d
be less willing to stomach it out here in front of so many witnesses. But Dutch looked
mad enough not to care. “Aw, shit!” I muttered (swearing doesn’t count when you’re
about to get your fiancé fired).

Dutch’s hands had balled into fists as Brice spoke to him, but whatever he said didn’t
stop the angry train. In fact, it seemed to make Dutch madder. “I think he’s going
to hit him!” I said, panting hard and trying to move faster.

“We’re too far away,” Candice said, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her glance
at my cane and my hobbling walk with frustration. She could’ve spared me the look;
no one was more frustrated about my hampered pace than me at that moment.

So I did the only thing I could think of to get Dutch’s attention off Brice. I let
go of my cane and tried to run. It did the trick. Or trip, as was the case. I fell.
Hard. I heard Candice cry out as I went down, and saw her arms flail for me, but she’d
been too slow. I hit the pavement on the side of my bad hip—which, with my bad hips,
could have been either the right or the left, but in this case, it was the left—and
I let out a good long wail…and maybe a few expletives…(swearing doesn’t count when
you’re trying to stop your fiancé from getting fired by taking one for the team on
your bad hip).

The pain was intense, and I squeezed my eyes closed and bit my lip hard enough to
taste a little blood.
“Mother Falkland Islands!”
(Sometimes I think that coming up with a clever curse word alternative should win
me back one of the quarters from the swear jar.)

After groaning and rolling to my right side, I felt a hand latch onto my wrist, followed
by Dutch’s clear baritone calling my name. “Abby! Jesus, what happened?”

I opened my eyes to find both him and Brice running toward us. As they got close,
Candice glared hard at Dutch. “She was trying to get to you before you did something
stupid, and she tripped!” Candice yelled at him.

That was my cue to complain—loudly. “Ow, ow, ow, ow!”

Dutch reached my side, practically shoving a paramedic out of
the way, who, I realized belatedly, had come to my rescue too. “Doll?” he asked, bending
low to run his hands gently over my arms and legs. “Where does it hurt?”

“My ass!” I told him, even though that was a lie. My hip hurt like a mother Falkland
Island.

Dutch blinked. Clearly not the answer he’d expected. “Your rear?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said, gritting my teeth again. “You are a royal pain in my ass, Dutch Rivers!
You weren’t going to wait for me to explain, and you made me fall!”

My fiancé looked like he had to bite back whatever retort he really,
really
wanted to say to me, and instead he helped me to my feet and yelled at the poor paramedic
he’d shoved out of the way to get my cane. “Can you walk?” he asked in a far gentler
tone.

I pushed at him as I took my cane from the kindly man trying to hand it to me. “I’m
fine!” I snapped.

Now, you should probably know that all this bluster was a ploy I’d used once or twice
before with Dutch. (Okay, maybe a few more times than once or twice.) Anyway, I’d
managed to figure out that the secret to defusing Dutch’s anger was to get mad myself.
If I start snapping and throwing a little hissy fit, he becomes all calm and reasonable.
In fact, for whatever reason, he often finds my hissy fits funny.

“Why don’t you let one of the guys check you out?” Dutch said in a steady, soothing
voice. (See? It totally works!)

“I’m fine!” At least I hoped I was. I took one small step, and managed okay.

“Did she hit her head?” Dutch asked Candice.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“We can take her to the hospital and have her checked out,” said the paramedic.

“I saw her go down,” Brice said. “She hit the ground pretty hard. She could have a
concussion.”

I realized that everybody was so busy discussing my condition that no one was paying
attention to me. Well, save for one man looking on from the parking lot with an amused
expression.

While they were so distracted by the discussion about what to do with me, I eased
away from them and gimped my way over to him. “Abigail,” Director Gaston said warmly.
“That looked like it hurt.”

“Took one for the team,” I told him.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I applaud your timing, but are you all right?”

“A little sore, but I’ll live.”

“I understand you’ve decided to join the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your fiancé will come to me to try to have you removed from the case,” he replied,
that gentle hand on my shoulder never wavering.

I spoke rapidly, aware that the others might be walking up to us at any moment. “Sir,
I think that Dutch may be in danger. And I worry that the danger he’s in has something
to do with this case.”

Gaston’s brow rose. “Oh?”

“Yes. I can’t explain it other than a feeling that his life could be in jeopardy,
and it has something to do with these bombings. Can you please, for me, take him off
the case?”

Gaston’s brow lowered and as if to make a point, he turned his head and took in the
surrounding scene. “Abby, as long as these bombings continue to happen, any one of
us could be in real danger. I can’t afford to take one of my best investigators off
the case, not after this.”

I was disappointed but hardly surprised. I knew I’d have a
tough time trying to convince Gaston. “Okay, well then, will you make me a promise,
sir?”

“What’s that?”

“I think Dutch is gonna threaten to do something drastic if I’m not taken off the
case. But it’s only because he’s really mad, so, no matter what he says, or threatens
to do, will you please not fire him and keep me on board so that I can try to keep
him—make that everyone—safe?”

Gaston squeezed my shoulder and his smile was even more amused. “You have yourself
a deal, Abigail.”

“Sir!” I heard Dutch call. I turned and saw him hurrying toward us.

“Also,” I added quickly before Dutch got within hearing range, “it would really help
if you ordered Dutch to wear his vest for a while.”

“He’s got it on now,” Gaston said.

“Yeah, but I want him to wear it all the time. Can you do that?”

“Director,” Dutch said, coming the last few feet to stand right next to me. “May I
have a word with you?”

“Agent Rivers, Miss Cooper here was just telling me that she will be lending her considerable
talents to this investigation, and as I worry about the politics of having her on
board with regard to the other agency currently sticking its nose into our business,
I’d like you to stay close to her for the remainder of the investigation. And, as
I also worry that she could become a target if word got out that a talented psychic
was working for us on this one, I’d like you to wear your vest at all times.”

I had to work hard not to break out into a big ol’ grin.

For a minute Dutch looked completely taken aback—he didn’t know what to think. And
while Gaston had him slightly off guard, the director took out his cell phone and
said, “That’s an
order, Agent Rivers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call Washington and give
them a brief of the scene.”

As the director walked away, however, I saw Dutch’s stunned reaction fade and it was
replaced by something just south of furious.

Uh-oh.

“You know, Edgar…,” he said, shaking his head angrily. “You accuse me of not playing
fair, but as things go,
that
was dirty pool.”

I started to feel really bad, but in my mind I’d had no choice. “Dutch…I—”

“We’ll talk later,” he said, cutting me off. At that moment Candice and Brice came
up next to us, and without another word, Dutch stalked off.

“How mad is he?” Candice asked.

“If we were already married, I think he’d be asking me for a divorce.”

“He’ll get over it,” Brice said, his gaze moving to the smoldering rubble. The firemen
were starting to coil up their hoses and Brice lifted his chin toward the fire chief
in an unspoken question.

The chief waved us over. “It’s safe, but there are parts that’re still hot. Watch
your step,” he said, his eyes fixed on me.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and moved with Candice and Brice over to the front of the building,
which had a huge hole blown out about the place where the door would have been.

“It looks like the bomber walked in and didn’t waste any time detonating the bomb,”
Brice commented.

Broken glass crunched under my feet as I stepped gingerly into the space. A large
hole had also been blown through the ceiling, but otherwise the interior was fairly
intact.

What surprised me most, however, was what I saw bolted to
the floors. The remains of six barber chairs lined one wall, and toward the back I
could clearly see the partially melted remains of two dryer stations.

“A hair salon?” I said.

Candice nodded, a puzzled look on her face as well. “Odd choice of target for a suicide
bomber.”

“Very,” I agreed, continuing to scan the area.

“When did the blast occur?” Candice asked.

“Right after the shop opened,” Brice said. “A little after nine a.m.”

The last time I’d looked at a clock had been while I was in my car—right before Candice
showed up. I remembered it’d been a little before eleven a.m. “They got the fire out
fast.”

Brice nodded. “The fire station is just around the corner.”

I looked again at the scene, and had to tuck in my emotions when I spotted five yellow
body bags set to the side ready for the coroner to take them away. “Any idea who they
were?” I asked.

Brice read from his notepad. “We believe one of them is the owner of the shop, Rita
Watson, and the other four we haven’t identified yet, but several calls have come
in from the families of two other women who work here, Kelly Longfellow and Grace
Williams, as well as a call from the mother of a possible client—Valerie Mendon. Mrs.
Mendon had just dropped off her daughter five minutes before the blast.”

I bit my lip and fought back against the moisture welling in my eyes. Brice read the
facts of the scene without any emotion, which is what his training called for, but
stuff like this affected me deeply. All I could think about was that poor mother who
would forever blame herself for giving her daughter a ride to the place of her premature
death.

Candice subtly laid a hand on my arm and squeezed. I nodded and silently thanked her
for the reassuring gesture.

“And the bomber?” I asked when I could talk without losing it.

Brice shook his head and sighed heavily. “There’s not much left,” he said.

I grimaced. “Do you know anything?”

“We have a witness who was walking by at the time who saw a woman cut through a row
of houses, run through the parking lot and into the front door of the salon. He says
she had what he thought was a backpack strapped to the front of her torso, and he
says that she was moving erratically. He stopped to watch her because he thought she
was high on drugs and he might need to call the cops. He says the door barely closed
behind the woman when the front of the shop exploded.”

“Did he give a description of her?” Candice asked.

“He said he thought she was young, maybe mid- to late twenties, but he’s not sure
on the hair, height, or anything else.”

“So, this is a similar profile to the College Station bomber,” I said, remembering
the bomber at the mall had also been a young female.

Brice shrugged. “Possibly. I’ve learned not to rely on eyewitness testimony too much.
Anyway, we won’t know anything for sure until the coroner gives us a report, but,
so far, yes, her MO fits with the other bombing in College Station.”

“Which doesn’t fit at all with normal psychology,” Candice said. I looked at her and
she explained, “Men are far more likely to choose a violent means of suicide than
women. Guys will use a gun, or jump off a building, or crash their car into a wall.
Women typically choose self-poisoning—pills or arsenic and the like.”

“Unless they’ve been brainwashed,” Brice said.

Candice turned to him. “You guys really think this is the work of some sort of terrorist
group?”

He shrugged. “Two suicide bombings in the space of a couple
weeks? Yeah, we’re entertaining that theory pretty hard. So is Homeland Security,
by the way.”

Brice then nodded through the large hole and I saw a bunch of men in dark blue jackets
standing just to the side of the building.

But I wasn’t buying the terrorist theory. “Where was the witness standing when he
saw the girl?” I asked.

“He was on the sidewalk right in front of the shop,” Brice said.

“Is he okay?” Candice asked. The sidewalk was on the other side of the parking lot—maybe
twenty-five feet away.

Brice flipped the lid closed on his notebook. “He’s got a couple of small scratches
from flying glass, but he was far enough away not to get hit with the blast.”

“Lucky,” I muttered.

“Yeah, except for witnessing something he’ll never forget, he’s a lucky bastard.”

Brice wasn’t trying to be sarcastic; it was just his manner.

We fell silent after that and I could feel the weight of Brice waiting for me to give
him my intuitive impressions, but the truth was that I was working up the courage
to open my intuition to the scene.