The name struck her like a punch, confirming her worst fear. Another child. Oh, dear God, no . . . Nausea climbed into her throat. Closing her eyes, Nat recalled Kyle's warning at the gas station the day before.
bad man take ricky. kill again. hurry
The knowledge that she may have been able to prevent this was a crushing weight on her shoulders. Sick with fear for a child she'd never met, she pressed her hand to her stomach. She didn't even realize she'd stumbled back until her back met the wall. The impact snapped her back. When she opened her eyes, Nick was standing a couple of feet away, looking at her as if expecting her to collapse at any moment.
"Are you all right?"
Embarrassed, she nodded, but she was trembling inside. "Did you find the boy?" she asked.
He grimaced. "No."
She closed her eyes against the quick swipe of pain, terrified it was already too late for Ricky Arnaud.
"Maybe you ought to sit down," he said.
Because she didn't trust her voice, Nat turned away and started toward the kitchen. "I should have done something," she said. "I knew this could happen."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
“The boy," she snapped. "I should have found a way to stop it."
"Wait a minute. Are you telling me you know something about that missing boy?"
She heard him moving behind her, but she didn't stop. She was midway through the living room when the sight of the words written on the dining room wall stopped her cold. She stared at the heavy black letters against the crisp white paint, wondering how to explain them, wondering if he would believe her even if she could find the words.
"What the hell?"
Nat turned at the tone of his voice. He was staring at the words, his expression taut with shock. "Jesus." His gaze snapped to hers. "What the hell is that?"
She'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times in the last six months. Times when she stood in front of the mirror in her room at River Oaks Convalescent Home in Baton Rouge and explained to an open-minded and sympathetic Nick Bastille that since waking from a coma she had certain capabilities she hadn't had when she'd taken that jagged piece of tile to her wrists. But the man standing before her looked about as sympathetic as a gator right before it chomped down on an unsuspecting nutria.
"I was ... sleepwalking. I wrote that just before you arrived."
"Sleepwalking?" His gaze flicked from the writing on the wall to her. "Why did you ask me the boy's name when, evidently, you already knew it? What the hell kind of twisted bullshit is this?"
"Nick, I didn't know his name. I swear."
"If you didn't know his name, how could you have written it on the wall?"
"I didn't write that," she stammered.
''You just told me you did."
"Yes, I wrote the words. Physically, I mean. But the message came from ... somewhere else. From someone who's trying to help me." God, that sounded insane.
Incredulity filled his expression when his gaze shifted from the wall to her. "Look, I don't know what the hell's going on-"
"Sit down." She pulled out a chair, then rounded the dining room table and sank into the one across from it. "Please. We need to talk."
After an interminable moment, Nick took the chair. "Lady, my tolerance for bullshit is pretty low right now, so why don't you just tell me about that goddamn witness?"
Nat stared at him, her heart pounding. And suddenly she knew there was no way she could convince this man of what was happening to her simply by talking about it. An explanation wouldn't be enough. She was going to have to show him.
She'd never invited a trance writing session, and the prospect of inducing one now frightened her, particularly with Nick Bastille as her witness. The episodes were unsettling at best, terrifying if she wanted to be perfectly honest about it. When she entered a trance, even if it was only for a few seconds, she lost all sense of time and place and had no idea what was going on around her.
But if she wanted this man to believe her--if she wanted his help--she was going to have to convince him that his son's death had not been an accident. That there was a killer on the loose in Bellerose. That he had killed more than once. That he would kill again unless they stopped him .
Moving quickly, she rose and went to her briefcase on the counter where she removed a legal pad and pen. Behind her, she heard him sigh, an angry, impatient sound that told her he was losing patience. That she probably only had a couple of minutes before he got up and walked out.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Do you believe in psychic phenomena, Mr. Bastille?"
"What?"
“I said, do you believe--"
"I heard you the first time," he snapped. "I just can't believe I'm hearing it."
"If you're skeptical--"
"Lady, I'm a hell of a lot more than skeptical. I think you're yanking my chain, and I'm an idiot for sitting here and letting you do it."
"I’m psychic," she said. "I've been psychic since emerging from a coma six months ago,"
He was looking at her as if she were sprouting a second head right before his eyes. Then he surprised her by laughing. "Oh, for chrissake," he muttered.
"Hear me out."
Abruptly, he shoved away from' the table and rose. "I've heard enough."
"You have to listen to me,” she said.
"I don't have to do shit."
Panic descended when he started for the door. "Give me five minutes," she said. "Please."
Nick stopped, but didn't turn around. She saw impatience and fatigue in his stance. Then he slowly turned to face her, exasperation and puzzlement dear in his expression. Laughing harshly, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "I don't believe this."
Nat took the chair. Her hand was shaking when she picked up the pen. She pulled in a deep, calming breath, then wrote: What happened to Ricky Arnaud? .
"This is a joke," he muttered.
Ignoring him, she wrote: What happened to Brandon Bastille?
Nick cursed. Out of the comer of her eye, she saw his hands clench into fists. She could feel the fury coming off him. It was like a storm, building into something awesome and dangerous. She closed her eyes, reaching, reaching . . .
But the uncertainties were interfering with her concentration. Maybe Kyle wouldn't come to her this time. Maybe she needed to be alone. Maybe this had been a very bad idea and she was a fool for trying ....
No, she thought, and conjured a mental image of Kyle. His sweet face, round and covered with freckles. A crooked haircut because he couldn't sit still in the barber's chair. The scrape on his nose from when he'd wrecked his bicycle in the driveway ...
Vaguely, she was aware of Nick crossing to the door to leave. She was losing him. Damn. Damn. Damn! Desperation hammered at her, but she didn't open her eyes. She didn't break her focus. Something was starting to happen. She could feel the vibrations in the room. She could hear the buzz inside her head, a swarm of bees in a hive that was as big as a house. Then her peripheral vision turned to monochrome, as if she were looking through a black-and-white kaleidoscope. She heard Nick's voice but couldn't understand his words. She saw Kyle's face and a mother's joy overwhelmed her. She heard herself sob, felt the wetness of tears on her cheeks. Then his innocence and purity and love were inside her, soothing her shattered heart.
"Oh, sweet baby."
She wasn't sure if she'd spoken the words aloud or just thought them. But she knew Kyle had heard her because he smiled. She saw his little white teeth. Freckles on a turned-up nose. Her love for him was an ache deep inside. She wanted to squeeze him and kiss him, hold him tight and never let go. But even overcome with emotion, Nat knew she could not indulge, no matter how powerful the need.
I need your help.
I know, Mommy.
She was vaguely aware of her hand gripping the pen, the point moving across the pad, digging into the paper, tearing it. Where is Ricky?
Heaven.
A sob cho
ked out of her. Where is his body?
Bad man Took him. Gateamud.
She was blind and paralyzed now, her body gripped by a vacuum that was devoid of sound and sensation and light. I need a sign from Brandon, sweetie.
Nothing.
Kyle?
Blue the one eyed bear
What does that mean?
He'll know.
Honey, don 't leave me. I miss you so much.
Be careful, Mommy
Come back ...
She didn't want to let him go, fought to hold onto him. But as quickly as he'd come to her, Kyle was gone.
Chapter 11
Nick had seen a lot in his thirty-five years. When he was in prison, he'd seen a fellow inmate have an epileptic seizure. One minute Danny "The Wolf" Parsons had been sitting at the lunchroom table cursing his girlfriend and complaining about the macaroni and cheese. The next minute he was lying on the floor with his eyes rolled back, his jaws clenched tight, his body as stiff as a board.
That hadn't been the only terrible thing Nick had seen while he'd been at the mercy of the state, and it took a lot to shake him up. The sight of Nat Jennings slumped in the chair with her eyes rolled back, her head lolling, and the pen clutched in her fist as if it were her lifeline to the world shook him up and then some.
Cursing under his breath, he dashed across the living room and set his hands gently on her shoulders. ''Easy does it. Try to relax. I've got you."
He glanced down at the pad on the table. She was still clutching the pen with her left hand. Her hand moved across the paper as she scrawled crude words onto the page. Shock slammed through him when he saw that she was writing backward, from right to left. What the fuck?
An instant later she went limp. She would have fallen out of the chair if he hadn't caught her beneath her arms and lowered her gently to the floor. "Easy does it."
She wasn't convulsing, but he could feel the tremors ripping through her body. Not knowing what else to do, he knelt beside her and eased her onto her back. When she began to thrash, he pressed gently on her shoulders, holding her down.
"Nat? Can you hear me?"
After what seemed like an eternity, she stilled. She was breathing hard. Her forehead was slicked with sweat. He could feel the dampness coming through her shirt where he was touching her. Relief swept through him when her eyes fluttered open. They were glazed, but at least she was conscious.
"Just relax," he said. "You had a seizure."
"Not ... a seizure."
"Just lay still. I'm going to call an ambulance."
She pushed his hands away, "No doctors."
"You had a seizure, for chrissake."
"I didn't have a seizure," She tried to sit up, but he gently pressed her back down.
"I don't think you have any idea what just happened."
"I know exactly what happened." Wiping tears from her cheeks with her sleeve, she slapped off his hands and struggled to a sitting position. "I've been videotaped, for God's sake,"
"Videotaped?"
"My doctor did what's called video monitoring when I was in the hospital. I've been diagnosed with psychogenic epilepsy."
Even though he didn't have the slightest idea what psychogenic epilepsy was, Nick found himself inordinately relieved to hear there was a medical explanation for what had just happened.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine." Then, as if realizing the episode had alarmed him, she softened. ''I'm sorry. I know it can be unsettling to witness. But I'm honestly okay."
She was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, and for the first time he noticed her boxer shorts had ridden up, revealing the pretty flesh of her thighs. Nick stared at that dangerous stretch of skin. His response was primal and swift and inappropriate as hell.
Shifting to accommodate the heady rush of blood to his groin. he looked down at her, tried not to notice the way her hair had fanned out over his hand. That her eyes were the color of high-grade turquoise. That she wasn't wearing a bra ...
"How often does this happen?" he asked.
"Depends. I'll go a week with nothing. Then it will happen twice in one day."
"Don't you take medication?"
"There is no medication for what I have." Shaking off his hands, she struggled to her feet, then used the chair back to steady herself.
He stared at her, not quite sure how to help her or what to do next.
She glanced at the legal pad on the table. "Give me the pad."
Baffled that she would want the pad at a moment like this, Nick handed it to her. “I don't see what that has to do with--"
The words died in his throat when he spotted the words scribbled on the paper. The first sentence was written in a neat, slanted cursive. The remainder had been written in a childlike scrawl.
Where is Ricky?
Heaven.
Where is his body?
Bad man Took him. Gateamud.
I need a sign from Brandon, sweetie.
Kyle?
Blue the one eyed bear
He stared at the last sentence, aware that his heart was pounding, the hairs at his nape standing on end. Something uncomfortable niggled at his brain, a warning telling him he wasn't going to like what happened next.
She was looking down at the pad, her brows drawn together, then she raised her gaze to Nick's. "Did your son have a pet or stuffed animal named Blue the one eyed bear?"
Something cold crept up the back of his neck. Something deeper than a shiver. Something that shook him so hard inside that for a moment he couldn't speak. "He had a hamster," Nick said when he found his voice. "It had been born with only one eye. Brand named it Blue." He cut her a hard look. "How did you know that?"
"I didn't."
"You wrote that. How did you know about the goddamn hamster?"
"I didn't write that."
"You and I were the only people in the room, and I sure as hell didn't write it."
Intellectually, Nick knew there was no way his son had anything to do with what Nat had written. But he couldn't deny that it was very unlikely that she would know the name of Brand's first pet.
"My son wrote that,” she said. "Through me."
He dragged his gaze away from the words to glare at her. "I don't know how the hell you managed this, but I don't believe that was written by some goddamn unholy intervention."
“This has been happening since I came out of the coma. It's called trance writing,"
He stared at her. A pale beauty with turquoise eyes that reflected more pain than any human being should ever have to feel. He wondered if his own eyes reflected the same thing. If she recognized the kinship between them.
"I don't want any part of this," he said.
"You're already part of this."
"What the hell do you want from me?" he asked angrily.
The instant the words were out, he wished he hadn't said them. He knew what she was going to say. He knew it was something he didn't want to hear. But he also knew he wasn't going to refuse her.
"I need your help. I can't do this by myself."
"Do what?"
"Find the bastard who killed my son." Her nostrils flared. "Your son. And keep him from doing it again if we're not already too late."
Nick stared at her, disturbed by her words, incredulous that she believed them, downright alarmed because there was a part of him that was starting to believe her, too.
"I'm not buying this," he said. But the words held no conviction.
"You saw it with your own eyes, Nick."
"I saw you have a seizure."
She tapped her finger against the pad of paper ''This is my son's handwriting."
''That's bullshit. I saw you write it."
"He wrote it though me." Her expression turned fierce. "Before you write me off as insane, why don't you walk me through what you saw?"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"Let's start with which hand I used.”
"You used
your left hand."
Nat tore off the top sheet. Holding the pen in her right hand, she wrote her name in a smooth, neat cursive. Next to it, she printed her name. Quickly, she switched hands and tried to do the same with her left hand. But the writing was barely legible. "I'm no more ambidextrous than you are," she said.
"I saw you write that with your left hand."
She raised her gaze to his. "Kyle was left-handed."
When he only continued to glare, she added. "What else did you see? Exactly how did I write those words? Left to right? Right to left? How?"
At the time, he'd been a lot more concerned about her seizure than that damn pad of paper. But he'd had the presence of mind to notice her hand moving across the page. That she'd been gripping the pen awkwardly, tightly, and that her hand had been moving from right to left.
"I wrote from right to left, didn't I?" she asked.
He wasn't going to agree. To accept any of what she was telling him was simply too far beyond his realm of believability. To consider the repercussions was unthinkable.
"Nick, I'm not trying to be cruel. I wouldn't do that to someone who's lost a child. I know what it's like to grieve. But you've got to believe me."
After a long moment, he touched the paper with his fingertips and looked at her. "Are you trying to tell me that your dead son has been in contact with you? You expect me to believe that?"
She held his gaze. "I know that's hard to grasp. I was a skeptic myself, believe me. I thought I was losing my mind. But over the last few months ... " She shrugged. "I've come to believe.”
"If you want me to believe you can communicate with the dead, you're going to have to come up with something a hell of a lot better than this." Tearing the paper from the pad, he crumpled it and hurled it at the wastebasket.
Silence pressed down on them for several minutes, then she said, "I don't know how much you know about me or what happened three years ago.”
"I've been in prison the last six years, chere. I didn't exactly keep up with the town gossip."
"You know my husband and son . . . were murdered." She took a moment to gather herself, then continued. "You know I was arrested."
"What does that have to do with your claim that you're psychic?"