Vision Impossible

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

OBSIDIAN

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, July 2011

Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2011

All rights reserved

 

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

 

Laurie, Victoria.

Vision impossible: a psychic eye mystery/Victoria Laurie.

p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-51691-1

1. Criminal profilers—Fiction. 2. Women psychics—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3612.A94423V55 2011

813’.6—dc22 2011004011

 

 

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

 

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Acknowledgments are the ultimate FB status or Twitter post—they allow everyone to see all the special people in my life, and how amazingly supported I’ve been over the years. Were it not for the names listed below, there would be no Abby Cooper and certainly no M. J. Holliday, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

To start: Allow me to humbly bow before my wonderful and amazing editor, Ms. Sandra Harding. Sandy is this incredibly talented and gifted editor who is so levelheaded, grounded, and sensible that I sometimes just call her for a girl chat. (Heh, heh . . . and I’m sure she
loves
that!) She’s brought a wonderfully calm and reflective voice to bear in the process of creating the Abby and M.J. books, and I’ve come to consider her opinion, thoughts, and probing questions invaluable to my writing process. Thank you, Sandy. I think you’ve added the missing ingredient to the books, and I’m so, so,
so
grateful to have you in my corner.

Next: my agent, Jim McCarthy. You know, I gush about Jim at the beginning of every single book, and after sixteen of these puppies, I’m wondering what I haven’t said that I might be able to say this time! In truth, Jim is every author’s dream agent. He’s personable, informed, a crackerjack negotiator, smart, witty, clever, and the best muse I could ever hope for. Plus, the guy speaks fluent “Victoria,” which makes him invaluable just for that! Many a conversation has started with, “What’s that guy who was in that thing?” I don’t know how he always seems to know which guy and what thing, but he does, and I love him for that and so much more.

My
marvelous
copy editor, Michele Alpern, who somehow managed to squeeze this manuscript into her already overpacked schedule. You’re always my first and only pick, Michele, so don’t you ever quit copyediting, ya hear? ☺

My publisher, Claire Zion. Thank you for your continued support and unending enthusiasm. I’m SO blessed to be under the NAL umbrella, and your support has meant everything to me.

Also from the NAL team: editorial assistant Elizabeth Bistrow and publicist extraordinaire Kaitlyn Kennedy—you guys are simply fabulous, and you’ve provided such wonderful assistance and expertise. I’m equally grateful to have you in my corner!

Special thanks also to my own personal “Team Laurie,” Katie Coppedge and Hilary Laurie—or my sistahs from other mistahs. Thank you for working so hard behind the scenes and for filling in the gaps for me. Also, thank you simply for being extraordinary women with unwavering enthusiasm to face the day and put a little sunshine into mine. I love you oodles and oodles, ladies.

I. J. Schecter, aka “Idgie Bibbles”: Thank you for helping me with that tricky Canadian speak and for providing some navigation in and around the greater Toronto area. I’m grateful for that and for all the fabulous anecdotes you send me, which always bring with them an added laugh and a smile. ☺

Finally, extended thanks to my family and friends, with a few honorable mentions to those of you who have given extra special support to me and the books, and you are: Mary Jane Humphreys; Nora, Bob, and Mike Brosseau; Karen Ditmars; Leanne Tierney; Dr. Jennifer Casey; Tess Rodriguez; Shannon Dorn; Suzanne Parsons; Silas Hudson; Pippa and Betty Stocking; Juan Tamayo; Ric Michael; Drue Rowean; Thomas Robinson; and Neil and Kim Mahoney.

 

Hugs and love,

Victoria

F
or the record, burying a dead body is a
lot
more work than it looks like on TV.

Also for the record, burying a dead body while wearing a clingy cocktail dress and heels, and in the pouring rain—darn near impossible. Of course, I had help, which could be why we eventually got our dearly departed dude six feet under. (Okay, so maybe it was more like two feet under, but who’s really measuring at that point?)

“I think that’s good,” said my oh-so-gorgeous fiancé as he patted down the mud, leaves, and scrub covering our dead guy.

“Thank God,” I said, holding my hands palms up to let the rain wash some of the mud off. And that’s when I realized my engagement ring had slipped off. “Son of a beast!” I gasped. (Yes, I’m still not swearing, which, at times, proves most inconvenient.)

“What?” asked my sweetie.

Before answering him, I dropped to all fours and began to feel around frantically in the mud. “My ring! I’ve lost my ring!”

My fiancé threw aside his shovel and came to squat down next to me. “When?”

Tears welled in my eyes and my heart raced with dread. “I’m not sure,” I admitted, still scratching at the mud with my fingernails.

“Hey,” he said gently, taking my wrists in his hands to stop my frenetic search. “If it’s in the grave, we’re not going to find it now. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But—” I began.

“No buts. Now come on. They’ll catch on that we’ve killed the head of the guard any minute now, and they’ll come looking for us. We have to put some distance between us and them.”

I was still crying, however, and I couldn’t get over losing the most precious thing I owned. “Please, Rick?” I begged, using the name easily now. “Just give me a minute to look; I promise if I don’t find it in—”

And that’s as far as I got before the woods all around us erupted in gunfire. Rick pulled me to him protectively. I stared into his deep brown eyes as he growled,
“Move!”

He got no further argument from me; we surged forward and I stuck close to him as we darted through the underbrush. We ran for probably a quarter mile, and I tripped and slipped almost the entire way in my heels. The darn things had no traction, and if Rick hadn’t been practically carrying me, I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it that far that quickly.

We stopped to catch our breath and listen for signs of a chase behind us. I did my best not to quiver in fear while he scanned the area. In the distance I could hear the occasional pop of a gun, but nothing seemed close, and for that, I was grateful. I eyed my sore, muddied, blistered feet and wished that my black pumps were ruby red and I could click them together to go back home.

“You ready to move again?” Rick asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

No,
I thought.

“I can see a structure about twenty yards that way,” he told me. “I think it might be a hunting lodge or a log cabin. We can make it there and hide out till they’ve finished looking for us. It’ll also give us some shelter from this rain.”

“Yippee,” I said woodenly.