Tuesday's Child (Book 1 of Psychic Visions, a paranormal romantic suspense) Read online

  "Why are you doing this?" Blood trickled down the corner of her mouth. Sam didn't know who spoke – her or the victim. It didn't matter, the words were the same.

  "Because I can, bitch." Mocking laughter echoed through the small room.

  "But...?" She gasped, fighting the vomit in the back of her throat. "Why me?"

  "You're weak. You deserve killing. Staying with an asshole like that. Besides, I hate him. Maybe the cops will think he's good for this one."

  "No," she gasped. "Please, don't."

  "Too late."

  He raised his fist and landed a blow below her eye socket. Bone shattered, making little scrunching noises. There'd be no white knight coming to the rescue. Ever. There was only Sam and she didn't know how to help.

  Through the bloody haze, Sam, desperate to take something useful back with her, struggled to open her good eye. Swollen and bloody and not her own, made the job damn near impossible. Light slid painfully under her sore eyelids. She struggled to bring the scene in focus. The bastard was getting off her bed. Blood splatter covered his shirt and jeans. He wore unrelenting black with the blood standing out in dark wet spots. He wore gloves and a ski mask. Same height and same build.

  Same energy pattern. Damn, him again. At least she thought it was him.

  Only one eye could see. Sam couldn't even tell if this man wore a ring or not. The light in the room started to fade, as if the sun were setting at rapid speed. Except the curtains were closed and it was the middle of the night.

  Her vision narrowed, locked on her killer's face. The circle grew smaller and smaller. Sam knew her time was almost over. She could only watch with painful understanding as the circle of light reduced to a pinpoint before finally, thankfully, blinking out. Forever.

  It was over.

  Sam woke in her own room, minutes later. For the first time, grief didn't overwhelm her. She was angry. She hurt for the victim and her family. But even more, a deep pulsing fury permeated her soul. That asshole had way too much fun doing what he was doing. He had to be stopped.

  When she could, she shifted upright. Pain still coursed through her body, but the anger provided a dense barrier, letting her cut through the pain. Inner excitement grabbed hold. This time she'd had some kind of conscious awareness. She'd kept a part of herself intact while living what that poor woman had experienced.

  Poor soul. Sam sniffled. Why was this guy doing this? Surely, he had a reason – more than just for entertainment.

  Lying back down, she thought about the details from the vision. Once again, the killer had been fully hidden, so no face or ring showed. There'd been light-colored walls, a plain white ceiling, and a cheap floral bedspread. Again, nothing helpful.

  It was six in the morning now. Surely, someone would find the woman today? Depression set in.

  Tucking the blankets around her, she reached for the phone. There was no answer at Detective Brandt's number. She hung up. Then changing her mind, she redialed and this time left a message. Afterward, she sat, undecided, before dialing the station.

  Five minutes later, she was sorely regretting that action.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, could you repeat that?"

  "Could you please have Detective Sutherland call me? I know this sounds bizarre, but I can't give you any more information. A woman has been murdered." Samantha tried to keep her voice from showing her frustration. Just going over the details hurt. Damn it, why wouldn't anyone listen to her?

  She cleared her throat from the confused emotions clogging it. "Excuse me, could you just pass the message on, please?" She shifted the phone to the other ear.

  "I'll see that he gets your message," replied the cold voice on the other end of the phone.

  "Thank you," she answered, and hung up. There was nothing else to do.

  It took twenty-five minutes to hear from him.

  "Samantha?"

  "Yes," she answered, relief rushing through her. "It's me."

  "And?" he asked, concern in his voice.

  Sam took a deep breath, snuffling back tears. "He's killed again," she whispered.

  Dead silence.

  She scowled into the phone. She could almost hear the gears in his mind churning at lightning speed.

  "Did you see him?"

  "I saw him, not the ring. He kept his gloves on the whole time." She shivered at the memory, still fresh in her mind. "He wore all black, including the ski mask."

  "Can you identity him in any way?"

  Sam shook her head then realized he couldn't see her. "No. Not really. I might recognize him by size, carriage, maybe his way of moving. His gaze..." Sam closed her eyes and swallowed hard, hating the fear clinging to her skin. Some belonged to the various victims and to a certain extent – some of it was hers. The killer breathed evil. She got a grip again. "It won't stand up in court, but I would recognize his energy if I ever saw him again – at least I think so."

  "What does that mean?" His sharp voice cut through the lines.

  She stiffened. "When he kills he lets himself enjoy it. Energy has its own individual pattern and changes with moods, etc." She paused for a moment. "I think I might recognize it again, but I can't say for sure."

  "Hmm."

  Sam waited in edgy silence.

  "Is there anything you can tell me about the victim?"

  "Like what?" She relaxed slightly. With it, fatigue set in. She was so tired.

  "Like where she lives, a house, an apartment...something to help us find her faster."

  Samantha sighed. "When you're being attacked, you don't think, 'I'm so and so and live at 146 Pine Street.' Women think about being rescued, and why them, and toward the end..." Sam caught back a hiccup of a sob. "Toward the end," she continued, her voice a hint above a whisper, "they only think of those they're leaving behind – their loved ones." Sam could barely hear him through the chaos of her emotions, yet, she could sense his sympathy. She could hear him scratching down notes. "He beat her to death."

  "He beat her? No knives?"

  "No. He hated her husband. The husband beat her so he took her away from him. If that makes any sense."

  "Nothing a killer does, makes any sense."

  Sam hesitated. "Another thing. Her eyes were damaged. It was hard to see clearly." Sam stared bitterly out the large bedroom window, where raindrops started to ping against the panes of glass. She would see another sunny day, but the poor women wouldn't.

  "Can you tell me anything else? Her name? You got the name of the car victim."

  "That was different." Violent imagery coursed through her mind. Was there gold to be mined in there somewhere? "Just a minute." Sam closed her eyes, trying to let the images she'd been forcing back, flood her mind. Maybe, there was something useful there. Fists. Blows. Blood. Screams. Red. Pain. Grief. Sam doubled over, gasping at the emotional onslaught. She fought to stay conscious, scared all over again as the pain and images took her back into the horror. There. What was that?

  A name. Sam fought to leash the demons in her mind, scrambling for the safety of her physical reality, desperately wanting to return to her small cabin by the lake. She shuddered and opened her eyes.

  A whitewashed ceiling stared back at her.

  She shivered. How could anything so bizarre happen in such a calm and normal setting?

  "Sam, damn it, answer me." Brandt's voice screamed through her phone, dragging her attention back to the task at hand. "Are you there? God damn it!"

  "Brandt." Sam's vocal cords sounded wrong to her own ears, hoarse and rough. She tried again. "It's okay. I'm here."

  "What the hell happened? Jesus, you said just a minute. I thought you'd gone to get something."

  Sam frowned. "How long was I gone?"

  "At least two or three fucking minutes." His voice calmer now. "I almost hopped into my truck to drive out to your place. Jesus, don't scare me like that again."

  Sam shook her head. That long? No, surely not. She stared uncertainly at the small plastic clock on the milk crate that passed
for a nightstand.

  "So what the hell was that all about?" Brandt blasted her, obviously pissed now that she'd returned.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Her husband's name was Alex."

  "Husband? Was he the killer?"

  "No." She rushed to explain. "That's what the killer wants you to believe."

  "So, the husband was a wife beater?"

  "I think so."

  Silence through the phone as he digested that information. When he spoke again, he was all business. "I've got to take another call. I'll need you to come to the station and give a statement. How about eleven? I'll see you then."

  Sam stared down at the dead phone. "Shit. That was so not what I wanted to happen."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  8:55 am

  Approaching the same imposing building for a second time was no easier. She glanced at her cheap watch. Right on time. The station had called just over an hour ago asking her to come in for nine instead. Two hours earlier meant two hours she didn't have to wait and worry. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and walked in.

  Her reception, this time, was quite different. After letting the front desk know she was there for her appointment, she was taken to a small room and left alone. Sam shivered as she took in the square table and two chairs. No windows, no couch, nothing to indicate comfort. This appeared more like an interrogation room. Silently, she walked to the far side of the table and sat down. Sam didn't need any other cues to understand she could be in serious trouble.

  She just didn't know why.

  The door opened, admitting an older grizzled cop. "Miss Blair, thanks for coming in. I'm Detective Stan Robertson."

  Sam grimaced. Warily, she watched as the man pulled out the other chair and sat down, dropping a file folder on the table.

  "So you're a psychic, are you?"

  She replied, "Somewhat."

  He glanced over at her, his bristly eyebrows slightly raised. "Explain."

  "Sometimes I get visions, but I can't read tarot cards or anything like that."

  He opened his folder and started writing notes on his pad of paper. She tried to read his chicken scratch. It proved impossible. She waited until he'd finished writing before asking a question of her own.

  "Why did you call me in?"

  "You reported a murder." Calm, quiet, he gave no inkling of his reaction to her report. He could be writing out a grocery list for all the emotion he showed. Sourly, she realized he'd probably been on the force so long nothing fazed him.

  "Where's Detective Sutherland?"

  "He's off duty right now. He'll be in soon."

  "I'd prefer to speak with him." Actually, she wanted to speak with only him, suddenly realizing she might not have the chance. What the hell was going on?

  "We'll have him call you to follow up." His demeanor suddenly changed. "So where were you when this murder happened?"

  "In bed, sleeping."

  His disbelief should have been an early warning. It wasn't.

  "The same bed as this woman?"

  Blindsided, she slumped in her chair. So, that was it. She was a suspect. Wait a minute. She sat straight up. "Did you find her?" she asked.

  "Why don't you tell me?" He smirked at her and returned to note-taking.

  Sam didn't know what to think. Every time she stepped forward to help, she became a suspect. But stupid her, she kept coming back for more. When would she ever learn?

  "So where were you at..." the officer stopped to look at his notes, "between midnight and four this morning?"

  "At home," Sam answered, her shoulders slumping. "And yes, I was alone."

  "So you have no alibi." He jotted something down.

  "If I'd known ahead of time that I'd need one, then I'd have made an effort to be with someone. But I didn't." Sam glared at the man sitting opposite her. She didn't want to be here. She should have told Brandt that she couldn't come.

  "I'd like to talk to Detective Sutherland," she repeated.

  "Yeah, we'll get on that right away."

  He never moved.

  Sam snorted before subsiding into silence. She was past helping him.

  "Let's get back to exactly what you were doing the evening leading up to the death of your friend."

  "She wasn't my friend. I didn't know her. I don't even know where she lives." It took effort to keep the wobble from her voice. She didn't think she'd ever get used to the accusations or the mockery that often accompanied the disbelief. She eyed the officer writing extensive notes. What the hell could he write to fill two full pages?

  Without a word or a glance her way, he got up and left the room.

  Sam waited with mounting frustration, and when an hour later, she was still sitting there, the frustration morphed into an insidious fear. She couldn't stop trembling. She interlocked her fingers and sat on them. Focus, you idiot. Don't let them get to you. You can do this. There's no reason for them to hold you here much longer. Using a mantra that had helped her in the past, she mentally repeated: All will be well. Everything happens for a reason. All will be well.

  Shit happens. That was the other mantra of her life. And it sure as hell had.

  All will be well. All will be well. All will be well.

  The door opened suddenly.

  She forgot to breathe.

  The same detective she'd seen at the very first meeting walked in.

  She sighed in disgust.

  "I'm Detective Bresson. I need to ask you some questions."

  "Why? You didn't believe me when I walked in here the first time. What's changed?"

  He ignored her.

  Sam listened in disbelief as the questioning started all over.

  An hour and a half later, Sam was shown the front door, the officer's words echoing in her head. Don't leave town.

  Go where? Bitterness overwhelmed her. She had nowhere to go.

  ***

  10:50 am

  Brandt checked his watch as he pulled the pickup into the side parking lot and hopped out. With any luck, he'd have time to grab a mug of coffee before Sam arrived. He'd tried contacting the police artist last night without success. He'd left a message. Hopefully, she'd gotten it and had shown up, too.

  Sam had too much valuable information locked inside her head not to take advantage of it. Their police artist had an eerie interpretation of people and events as well. Maybe together, the two of them could produce a little bit of useable magic.

  He pushed open the side door and nodded at Jensen, just leaving. Walking straight to the lunchroom, he snagged a mug, filled it with coffee, added cream, and headed to his desk. So focused on his time frame, it took him a minute to notice the unusual silence in the station.

  Glancing around, he frowned. People weren't smiling at him. No one said hello or good morning. What the hell?

  "Hey Adam, what's up?" The younger man was hunched over his keyboard, staring at his monitor as if it held the answer to life on it. He started; red flushed over his face and neck. He mumbled and refused to face Brandt.

  "What?" Brandt walked over until he stood directly in front. "Adam, talk to me."

  Adam's shoulders slumped. "I think you'd better talk to the captain."

  Brandt stiffened. "The captain? Okay, how about a heads-up first?"

  Adam finally glanced around the office and then met his gaze. "Personally, I think she might be on the up and up, but there's some that think she's in this neck deep."

  "She?" The caffeine had yet to kick in or his brain hadn't woken up yet. Either way, nothing about this was making any sense.

  "Your little psychic friend."

  His stomach soured. "Sam? What does she have to do with this?" Brandt checked his watch. She should be out front waiting for him by now. "Has she arrived already?"

  Adam looked at him, puzzled. "She just left."

  "Left?" Brandt searched the large open room, hoping to catch a sign of her. "Why? I asked her to come in at eleven. I wanted her to meet with the sketch arti
st."

  Adam lowered his voice and leaned closer. "She arrived hours ago. They just let her go."