Death Perception
Victoria Laurie
Psychic Eye – 6
For Nora Brosseau,
the most hilarious woman I know
and a dear, dear friend friend
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Acknowledgments
For my fortieth birthday, I was invited out to party it up in Las Vegas. And going was an absolute no-brainer—I mean, what better way to ring in the big four-ohmigod! than Vegas?
So I went, I saw, and I came home completely inspired to write the next Abby adventure set in Vegas. Therefore, if you read this book and enjoy it, toss a hand wave out to my dear friend Jim, who talked a grumpy 39.99999-year-old into taking on Sin City. I’d divulge more about that trip but, folks, what happens there stays there for a reason!
Special thanks go out to Kristen Weber, editor extraordinaire, and Michele Alpern, copy editor extraordinaire, along with the world’s best literary agent, Jim McCarthy, who keeps me laughing and fully employed, and of course my dear friends Karen Ditmars, Leanne Tierney, Maureen Febo, Suzanne Parsons, Debbie Huntley; my amazing Web master, Jaa Nawtaisong; Laurie Proux, Janice Murray, Pippa Terry and her delightful mumsy, Betty Stocking; Ellen George (who has always been kind to me); Silas and Nicole Hudson; my writing buddy, Catherine Morris; Rebecca and Brian Rosen, Molly Boyle—and her mom!—and, of course, the woman responsible for opening the door in the first place— Martha Bushko.
Additional thanks and love go out to my family, John and Naoko Upham, Mary Jane Humphreys, and Elizabeth Laurie. Hugs and kisses to all of you!
Finally, very special thanks are in order for Nora and Bob Brosseau and their wonderful brood, who have provided such fabulous inspiration. Thank you, Nora, Bob, Liz, Katie, Michael, and Nicky; the world would be a better place if everyone’s family were as terrific as yours.
Chapter One
Death has an energy.
It is thick as sludge, heavy as iron, and pulls you down into yourself like an imploding building. And as I sat across from the concerned mother of a very sick young woman, it was the last thing I wanted to feel. ‘‘Please tell me my daughter will make it through this,’’ she whispered, her voice filled with fear. She’d obviously read the look on my face after she’d asked about her daughter.
I had two choices here. I could tell her the truth or I could avoid telling her that her daughter had no hope— no chance at all. I looked up, prepared to meet those pleading eyes and be straight with her, but when I did...
I.
Just.
Couldn’t.
‘‘Marion,’’ I said gently, ‘‘the energy I’m feeling here isn’t good.’’ A tear slid down Marion’s cheek, yet her eyes remained fixed on mine, unblinking and welling with moisture. ‘‘I believe you and the doctors are doing absolutely everything you can to save her,’’ I added. ‘‘And I don’t think there is one thing more you can do to change the outcome. I believe you have done everything humanly possible to help your daughter fight for her life, and if she survives, it will be because of all the efforts you’ve already offered her. The rest is up to her and God.’’
Marion made a soft sound as she swallowed a sob, and I fought to hold my own emotions in check. ‘‘I can’t lose her,’’ she said. ‘‘She’s my only daughter, Abby. How can I go on without her?’’
I swallowed hard and took a breath. Breaking down in front of this woman would not help her. In fact, it would only add to her fear. ‘‘I know you’re scared out of your mind right now, but your daughter needs you to be okay with whatever her outcome is. She needs to know that if she loses the battle against her cancer, you’ll be able to go on. That’s the one gift you have left to give her, Marion. The one thing you can still do is reassure her that you’re strong enough to live your life to the fullest—even if she’s not around.’’
Marion buried her face in her hands, and I reached forward to rub her shoulder. ‘‘It’s my fault,’’ she sobbed. ‘‘It’s all my fault!’’
‘‘How could this possibly be your fault?’’ I asked.
Marion’s body shuddered while she tried to pull herself together. ‘‘April called me from college. She said she found a lump on the side of her neck. She said it was about the size of a bean. I told her that it was probably a cyst. I had them when I was her age and didn’t think anything of it. I told her that if the lump was still there when the semester ended, we’d get it checked out. The cancer had eight weeks to spread to the rest of her lymph nodes.’’
I bit my lip. Oh, man, that was rough. ‘‘Marion,’’ I whispered, ‘‘my crew is saying there was no way you could have known. You didn’t cause this, and even if you’d rushed her to a doctor right away, the end results would likely have been the same.’’ I had no idea if this was actually true, but at this point the only thing I could do for this woman was allow her the chance to forgive herself. Marion lifted her chin and stared me in the eyes, and I willed myself to look back without blinking. ‘‘It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart,’’ I said firmly. ‘‘You couldn’t have known.’’
She nodded, and that’s when the bell that was my appointment timer gave a small ting! We were out of time. Marion stood, and I handed her several tissues to go with the one in her hand. ‘‘You’re very kind,’’ she said as she took the tissues.
‘‘And you’re very brave,’’ I replied, leaning in to give her a long, hard hug. ‘‘Now go and be with your daughter,’’ I said, stepping back. ‘‘I’ll keep April in my thoughts and prayers, and you call me anytime you need someone to talk to, okay?’’
Marion sniffled and handed me some bills. ‘‘I will,’’ she said hoarsely.
After she’d gone, I went into my office, which was adjacent to my reading room, and sat down heavily. Turning my chair to the window, I put my feet up on the sill, leaned my head back, and let the tears flow.
Sometimes my job sucked.
‘‘Hey,’’ said a voice behind me.
I wiped my eyes before swiveling my chair around, and looked up at my suitemate and friend, Candice Fusco, standing just outside the door. ‘‘Hey,’’ I replied, my voice shaky.
‘‘You okay?’’
I inhaled deeply and again wiped at my cheeks. ‘‘Tough session.’’
Candice came into the room and sat down on the other side of my desk. ‘‘Feel like sharing?’’
I attempted a smile. ‘‘Just the psychic blues. I’ll be okay.’’
Candice gave me a sympathetic look. ‘‘Must be hard to see what you see sometimes, huh?’’
I cleared my throat. ‘‘Can be. Is that a file you need me to look at?’’ I asked, changing the subject and pointing at the folder in her lap. Candice and I had formed a partnership around her private-investigation business, combining her highly honed investigative skills with my natural intuitive talents. The results had been fantastic, and Candice’s business was now booming.
She nodded. ‘‘It’s our latest assignment. Family of a missing person wants to see if we can hunt down their father. He’s in his seventies with severe Alzheimer’s and he wandered away from his nursing home a month ago. No one has seen him since.’’
I frowned at the immediate sinking feeling I got as I gazed at the folder in Candice’s hand, and I knew I didn’t want to look into it right now. I’d seen enough tragedy for
one day, and I didn’t think I could tune in on another family about to be torn apart by the worst-case scenario. ‘‘Any chance it can wait?’’
Candice smiled. ‘‘Of course. I told the family we were pretty stacked with cases right now, and I’m not supposed to get back to them until late next week, so whenever you feel up to it is cool. Anyway, you look like shit—why don’t you go home to that hunka-hunka-burnin’ love and have him take your mind off things?’’
That got a genuine smile out of me. ‘‘Thanks for understanding,’’ I said, standing up. ‘‘I’ll see you at the gym bright and early, okay?’’ Candice and I were also workout buddies.
‘‘Sounds good. You hang in there, Abs.’’
I left my office, which sits in an old but charming building in the heart of downtown Royal Oak, Michigan, and stopped at the liquor store, where I picked up a bottle of wine—okay, two bottles of wine—and hurried home.
Dutch and I had taken a big step in our relationship when we’d moved in together a few months earlier. The transition had gone surprisingly well, and we’d settled into a nice, comfortable rhythm together.
With relief I noticed Dutch’s SUV parked in the driveway, but then I noticed the beat-up blue pickup parked at the curb. My handyman and other business partner, Dave McKenzie, was also in attendance. Damn, I thought. I was really hoping it would be just my honey and me.
As I breezed through the door, I was greeted by the smell of fresh-baking bread and a roast in the oven. My boyfriend can hang in the kitchen—hence, the reason Dave was taking so long to finish the addition he’d started three months ago: He kept getting invited to dinner. ‘‘Abs?’’ Dutch called when he heard the door open.
‘‘Hey, babe,’’ I said as I flopped wearily on the couch, where I was immediately pounced on by my dog, Eggy, and Dutch’s new puppy, Tuttle, who kissed and wriggled and fought each other for my attention.
Dutch poked his head out of the doorway of the kitchen and took one look at my face. ‘‘You okay?’’
I nodded. ‘‘Yeah. Just a really long day.’’
Dutch brightened. ‘‘Your practice is back up and kickin’, huh?’’ My professional-psychic practice had suffered greatly when I’d had to take a three-month hiatus to recover from a bullet wound I’d gotten earlier that year.
I nodded again. ‘‘It’s good to be earning my own keep again.’’
‘‘Dinner will be on the table in two minutes. Can you let Dave know?’’
I gave him a level look. ‘‘Ah, yes, our foster child. I’ll let him know.’’
Dutch grinned. ‘‘He’s bound to be done sometime, Edgar,’’ he said, using his nickname for me, after the famed psychic Edgar Cayce.
‘‘Oh, trust me, if anyone can milk the clock, it’s Dave.’’ I pushed up off the couch and trudged to the stairwell.
‘‘Be nice,’’ Dutch called after me.
I headed up to the bedroom and found Dave on a ladder with the world’s smallest paintbrush. I rolled my eyes again and cleared my throat to get his attention.
‘‘Hey, Abby,’’ he said as he swiveled around. ‘‘How was your day?’’
‘‘Productive,’’ I said to him. ‘‘I got so much done!’’
‘‘Good for you,’’ he said, turning back to paint the wall with itty-bitty strokes.
I scowled. He’d missed the hint. ‘‘Wouldn’t that go on better with a roller?’’
Dave swiveled back to me again. ‘‘Yeah, but you don’t get the great texture results that you get with a brush. Trust me, when this is finished, you’ll appreciate the attention to detail.’’
‘‘When being the operative word here,’’ I said with a grin.
‘‘True craftsmanship takes time,’’ Dave said, and took a whiff. ‘‘Dinner smells like it’s about ready.’’
‘‘You mean you can smell something other than paint fumes?’’
Dave smiled. ‘‘This snout smells all,’’ he said, pointing to his slightly oversized nose.
‘‘Yes, Dave, dinner is ready. Put the paintbrush down and come to the table.’’
Dave nodded and I headed back downstairs. As I walked into the kitchen, Dutch handed me a glass of the wine I’d brought home, ‘‘Here,’’ he said. ‘‘It’ll take that edge off.’’
I smiled happily and leaned in to wrap my arms around him. ‘‘You’re a really great boyfriend, you know?’’
‘‘So you need to keep telling me.’’
I laughed and sat down at the table. A moment later Dave joined us, and Dutch handed out plates of food piled high with roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and fresh bread. ‘‘Man!’’ Dave said as he ogled his plate. ‘‘All my old lady ever serves up are TV dinners!’’
I gave Dutch a pointed look that said, ‘‘See? This is why he won’t go home!’’
Dutch hid a smile and pulled out from under his chair something wrapped in plain pink paper with a matching bow. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, passing it to me.
‘‘What’s this?’’ I asked, my mood lifting.
‘‘For you,’’ he said. ‘‘Open it.’’
‘‘Is it your birthday?’’ Dave said with a note of panic and a mouth stuffed with food. ‘‘ ’Cuz no one told me!’’
‘‘It’s not my birthday,’’ I said to him, eyeing Dutch quizzically. ‘‘And it’s not our anniversary....’’
‘‘It’s a ‘just because’ present,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘Now open it.’’
I ripped off the paper and realized it was a book. Turning it over, I read the title. ‘‘Cooking for Dummies,’’ I said, all the joy leaving me.
‘‘Yeah!’’ Dutch said with enthusiasm. ‘‘You know how you’re always telling me you wish you could cook?’’
I scowled at him, because—for the record—I was not always telling him I wished I could cook. This was Dutch’s not-so-subtle attempt to domesticate me, something I fought him on tooth and nail. ‘‘Ah,’’ I said, a flicker of anger in my voice. ‘‘So, all the copies of Cooking for Absolute Idiots were sold out?’’
Dutch sighed. ‘‘Edgar,’’ he began.
I flipped open the book and pretended to read. ‘‘Oh! Here’s something I can handle! Quick dinner suggestions: First, remove outer plastic wrapping from popcorn package....’’
‘‘Opened up a can of worms there, buddy,’’ Dave mumbled to Dutch.
‘‘Abby,’’ Dutch tried again. ‘‘I didn’t mean—’’
I flipped a few more pages dramatically. ‘‘Oooo! A recipe for pizza! First, look up local delivery options in your neighborhood. Next, pick up phone and dial number....’’
Dave looked sympathetically at Dutch. ‘‘If you need a place to crash tonight, you can bunk in my spare bedroom.’’
Just then the phone rang, and my head snapped up, my radar on high alert as warning bells shot off loudly in my head. ‘‘You have to get that,’’ I said in all seriousness to Dutch. He gave me a quizzical look and the phone rang again. ‘‘Now!’’ I said, closing the book and setting it on the kitchen table.
Dutch stood and walked over to the phone on the counter. ‘‘It’s my mom,’’ he announced, looking at the caller ID. My stomach bunched when he picked up the line. I didn’t know what had happened, but something awful was about to unfold here.
My assumptions were confirmed when we heard Dutch say, ‘‘Mom... Mom, it’s okay, don’t cry. I’m here. Just tell me what’s wrong.’’
Dave and I exchanged a look as Dutch walked out to the living room to sit down on the couch and talk to his mother. ‘‘What’s your radar telling you?’’ Dave whispered to me.
‘‘It’s bad,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s bad.’’
Dave ate the rest of his meal in silence and I pushed the food around on my plate while we both strained to hear snatches of conversation from the living room. Finally, Dutch came back, his face pale and his features tight. ‘‘It’s Chase,’’ he said.
‘‘Your cousin?’??
? I asked.
He nodded. ‘‘He’s been kidnapped.’’
I gasped. ‘‘Oh, my God!’’ I hurried over to him. ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘He was working security for some wealthy businessmanin Vegas, and the last anyone saw of them was when they headed out of a strip joint on the south end of town. Mom said they found the car—it was pumped full of bullets—but there’s no sign of Chase or the guy he was guarding.’’
I squeezed my arms around Dutch. ‘‘When do we leave?’’ I asked him.
He hugged me back. ‘‘I’m going to catch the first flight I can. You should stay here.’’
‘‘Not a chance in hell, cowboy,’’ I said sternly. ‘‘You’ll need my radar now more than ever.’’
There was a long pause and finally I felt Dutch kiss the top of my head and whisper, ‘‘Okay, Edgar. You’re right—I could use you along. Now go upstairs and pack us a suitcase while I book our flight.’’
‘‘What can I do?’’ Dave asked as he got up from the table.
‘‘Could you look after the dogs and the house while we’re gone?’’ Dutch said.
‘‘You got it, partner,’’ Dave said, and gave him a pat on the arm.
I left them to hurry up the stairs and pack. My radar had hinted earlier that today was going to bring something terrible. I figured it was my reading session with Marion, but now I realized it was that awful phone call. As I pulled a large suitcase from the closet, I had no real appreciation for the fact that our nightmare was only just beginning.
* * *
Several hours later, Dutch and I were standing in the security line at Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Worried, I kept glancing up at Dutch, who was as pale as when he’d gotten off the phone with his mom, only now his brow was slick with perspiration. ‘‘You okay?’’ I finally asked him.
‘‘Fine,’’ he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and looking anxiously at the line in front of us.
‘‘We’ve got plenty of time to make the flight,’’ I said. Dutch had booked us on the red-eye to Vegas.