Parker And The Gypsy

  Mike’s gaze dropped to the box on the bed and suddenly he wasn’t so sure he wanted to open the damn thing, but Sara was waiting expectantly.

  He had to remind himself that the box contained someone else’s life story, not his. This all had nothing to do with him. Dragging the jewel case closer, he flipped open the lid. During his career both as a police officer and a detective, he had sorted through someone else’s private effects many times and he’d trained himself to remain impersonal about it.

  But Mamie’s small store of treasures were more pathetic than most. A pair of the colorful plastic “pop” beads that had once been the fad among teenage girls, a cheap zirconium ring that could have come from a Cracker Jack box, a few hair ribbons, a pair of blue baby bootees, a child’s stick-figure drawing of a boy and a smiling woman, labeled in proud, crooked letters Mom And Me.

  Mike shoved those things aside, going straight for a small cache of black-and-white photographs. They were mostly of the boy. John Patrick playing down by the lake, John Patrick clutching a ragged stuffed dog, John Patrick blowing out the candles on his birthday cake.

  He’d been a cute kid, a little on the chubby side with laughing dark eyes. It was hard to tell the color of his hair because he had a crew cut, making him look like a little roly-poly sailor. Some shade of light brown, Mike supposed. Not that it mattered. Kids’ looks could change a lot as they aged.

  Mike saw how much the boy resembled his mother when he came to the last picture. Obviously Mamie and her son. She didn’t look to be much more than a kid herself, despite her high heels, pleated skirt and tight-fitting sweater. John Patrick half hid behind his mother, peeking playfully at the camera, but Mamie’s bright smile was strained.

  “That was taken on John’s sixth birthday.” Sara’s voice came close by his shoulder, startling him. Mike had been concentrating so hard on the pictures, he hadn’t realized she’d moved to stand beside him, a soft kind of sadness clouding her eyes.

  “That was the last happy day Mamie ever spent with her son,” Sara continued. “Even then she realized how sick she was and worried about John Patrick’s future.”

  “And who’s the bald old geezer lurking in the background?” Mike pointed to the grizzled old man in coveralls standing just behind Mamie’s shoulder.

  “That’s Mr. Kiefer. He was the groundskeeper and short-order cook. The people that owned the inn used to serve lunches and dinners here besides running the boardinghouse. Mamie helped with the waitressing and cleaning. That’s how she supported herself and John.”

  Mike flipped over the photograph, looking for some kind of notation on the back of it. “Sara, where the hell are you getting all this information?”

  She squirmed and looked uncomfortable. “You really don’t want to know, Michael.”

  No, he was afraid he didn’t. He’d hoped to have a few more facts to work from, not just Sara’s so-called psychic impressions. He flipped through the photographs again. One figure was conspicuously absent.

  “There’s no picture of John Patrick’s father.” He hardly realized that he’d mused aloud until Sara answered.

  “No, Mamie doesn’t like to talk about—” Sara broke off. flushing. She amended. “I—I mean I get the feeling that whoever he was, he wasn’t a very good person. An older man who turned out to be married. He seduced Mamie and then left her to fend for herself after she got pregnant.”

  A tragic story, but not an unusual one. Mike dropped the pictures back in the box along with the rest of trinkets. “This isn’t a whole lot to go on, Sara. Are you sure there’s nothing else lying around here—a diary or some old letters? Any legal documents?”

  Sara shook her head. “If there was anything else left, I’m sure Mamie would have given it to me—that is, I think it would have been there in the box, or hidden away in the closet, too. The only other thing in there is John Patrick’s dog.”

  “His what?”

  Sara dove back into the closet and unearthed a small black-and-white stuffed dog, missing one eye, its plush fur dirty and rubbed down to the nubs. It was the same one the kid had been clutching in the picture.

  “It was John’s favorite toy,” Sara explained. “Mamie bought it for him one Christmas because he could never have a real dog here at the inn.”

  Mike held the ragged, moth-eaten dog up by one ear and grimaced, “I don’t think this mutt is going to be much help unless he can talk.”

  “Well...” Sara began, then stopped, biting down on her lip in a guilty embarrassed fashion that filled Mike with foreboding.

  He stifled a groan. “I can almost handle the fact that you think ghosts whisper in your ear, Sara, but please, please don’t tell me this dog talks to you, too.”

  “Of course not.” Her cheeks colored bright red. “But there are other ways, Michael. Haven’t you ever heard of a thing called psychometry?”

  “Psycho-what?”

  “Psychometry. The ability to touch an object and gain impressions or feelings about its owner.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I remember one of the other detectives in the department was always calling in some psychic to fondle the evidence in murder cases.” The scorn in his voice showed clearly what he’d thought about such proceedings.

  “You used to be a police detective?” But Sara’s surprise faded as quickly as it had come. She nodded to herself, murmuring. “Yes, of course you were.”

  Mike scowled. He hated when she seemed to know things about him without him really telling her. Deflecting the subject away from himself, he demanded, “And you claim to have some of these psychojigger powers?”

  Her chin came up in defiance. “A little.”

  A moment of unease surged through Mike as he recalled the way she’d touched his letter from prison out in the parking lot. Was it possible that she’d been able to tell—

  No! She couldn’t. Because nobody could do things like that. It was a lot of mumbo jumbo. And to prove it to himself as much as to her, he startled Sara by tossing the toy dog at her.

  She caught it awkwardly as he said, “All right. Go for it.”

  Sara blinked in confusion. “Go for what?”

  “Practice your voodoo powers on the stuffed mutt. Use him to tell me what happened to John Patrick.”

  Sara paled a little when she realized what he wanted. “It’s not something that I like to do very often, Michael. It can be rather frightening. And besides, you don’t believe in such things anyway.”

  “What does it matter what I believe?” Mike shrugged. “Maybe I should try to be more open-minded. Go ahead.”

  Sara’s troubled gaze dropped down to the toy she clutched in her hands.

  “Unless, of course, you really don’t think you can do it?” Mike taunted.

  She shot him a reproachful look and her mouth set in a stubborn line. “All right. I’ll try. But you have to stay still and be quiet for once.”

  “No problem.” Mike leaned back against the bedroom door and folded his arms, waiting.

  Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Sara sank down on the edge of the bed. Taking in a deep breath, she held the little dog tight to her breast and closed her eyes.

  Mike experienced a brief twinge of guilt. He didn’t know what he was doing, goading her into such a thing. Maybe it was because she was starting to get to him with all this psychic nonsense. Maybe, if nothing else, he needed to make sure he kept his own head screwed on straight.

  Any minute now, he was certain she’d open her eyes and offer one of the usual fake excuses. His negative vibes were interfering with her concentration. The moon wasn’t in conjunction with the right stars, or some rot like that.

  But instead she just sat there, the time ticking by, beginning to tell on his nerves. He was just about to tell her to forget it when a violent shudder wracked through her.

  “Sara?” he called uncertainly.

  “Afraid,” she said in a small voice. “He’s so afraid.”

  “Who is?” Mike demanded.

  “
John Patrick. There—there’s a horrible loud noise and it frightens him.”

  Although the last thing he wanted to do was encourage this charade, Mike couldn’t help asking, “Can you see anything? Are you getting a mental picture? Can you tell where he is?”

  “It’s not clear. He’s outside the inn...I think.”

  “And what’s the noise?”

  “A—a siren. And flashing red lights. John senses something bad is going to happen.”

  “I get that same feeling every time I see red lights in my rearview mirror.” But Mike’s quip fell flat. Sara was making him uneasy. She’d gone ice white, the contraction of her brow looking almost painful. If Sara was faking, she was damned good at this—the best he’d ever seen. She hardly seemed to be aware of anything Mike said or did, lost in a trance of her own making.

  “His mother,” she murmured. “John senses something is wrong with his mother. Mr. Kiefer is trying to comfort him, telling him everything is going to be all right.”

  Yeah, right, Mike mused bitterly. Where had he heard that one before? Although he’d promised Sara to remain still, he started pacing. He couldn’t help it.

  Sara suddenly began speaking in a different voice, the soft reassuring tone of an adult trying to comfort a small child.

  “It’s going to be okay, Johnny. Your mommy has to go away...in—in the big shiny white car.”

  Big shiny white car, my butt, Mike thought, rolling his eyes. The kid had been six years old. What’d Kiefer think he was, stupid or something? He’d know an ambulance when he saw one.

  “But you’re going to be taken care of, John,” Sara continued, her voice cracking a little. “There is a nice man coming who will help you find a new home.”

  “No, no!” Sara dropped to a heart-breaking whimper. “Don’t want new home. Want my Mommy.”

  Clinging to the toy dog, Sara began to rock back and forth.

  “Sara?” Mike asked sharply. “What the hell’s happening now?”

  “Gone. Mommy gone. But the gray man is here.”

  “The gray man?” Mike echoed. “Who’s that? You mean someone from the child welfare board?”

  “Don’t...don’t like the gray man. A-afraid. Want Mommy. Can’t breathe.” Sara drew in a great unsteady gulp of air. “Chest hurts. All squeezed tight.”

  He knew exactly what she was talking about because oddly enough, listening to her, he was finding it hard to breathe himself. His throat felt raw and dry, like it was closing shut.

  “Sara, that’s enough,” he growled. She was really starting to scare him. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  But Sara didn’t even seem to hear him.

  “Th-the gray man says I have to be a good boy. But he isn’t nice. Wants to—to take my doggie, throw him in the garbage. Says he’s too dirty.”

  “Sara, just stop it!”

  “No, no!” Sara clutched the dog to her chest in a death grip, scrambling to cower back against the headboard of the bed. “Can’t have him. Have to—to hide my doggie in Mommy’s secret place. In the closet.”

  “Sara!”

  “H-have to....” She was trembling all over now, tears starting to stream down her cheeks.

  Mike had had all he could take. Striding over, he wrenched the dog from her hands and flung it violently across the room. A terrible cry breached Sara’s lips. Seizing her by the shoulders, Mike gave her a rough shake.

  “Sara! Snap out of it.”

  Her eyes flew open wide to stare into his, frightened and disoriented. A ragged sob escaped her, but slowly the haze faded, leaving only blue eyes brimming with tears.

  “You—you okay?” Mike asked, gentling his touch on her shoulders.

  Sara nodded, color seeping back into her cheeks. She squirmed away from him and rose shakily to her feet. Touching one hand to her face, she suddenly seemed to realize she was crying. Appearing embarrassed about it, she averted her face, trying to get her emotions under control.

  “I—I didn’t mean to cause such a fuss,” she said. “I seldom have a psychic experience that strong. It felt too real.”

  Mike didn’t know what she’d just experienced. All he knew on some gut level was, she hadn’t been faking it.

  “C’mon, angel,” he said gruffly. “There’s no sense using your hand when I have this perfectly good jacket you can ruin.” He turned her gently, starting to gather her into his arms, but she tried to pull back.

  “Oh, n-no. P-please—”

  “Hey, it’s okay. The local dry cleaner is my bookie. I have a running account.” Cupping the nape of her neck, he forced her head against the lee of his shoulder.

  She resisted a fraction longer, then wrapped her arms around his neck, burrowing her face deep against his jacket. Cradling her tight in his arms, he made idiotic and totally useless shushing noises, murmuring every fool endearment he could think of. He thought she’d stop crying, but she still trembled.

  This was all his fault, dammit. What the hell had ever possessed him into pushing her into trying such a thing? Of course, he’d never really believed this psychic junk would work. He still didn’t. Sara was just too... too damn suggestible, blast it! Good thing he’d been able to snap her out of it.

  Good thing for her or for you, Parker? his inner voice tormented. That whole bit about John Patrick being scared, the shrill of the ambulance, losing his mom that way. What a bizarre coincidence. It had all struck a little too close to home, didn’t it, Mikey boy? Dredging up recollections that Mike hadn’t thought about in years, pulling them more sharply into focus. Just what he needed. More lousy memories.

  Unconsciously, his arms tightened about Sara, holding her closer. He filled his senses with her, inhaling the fresh sweet scent of her perfume. Was it possible for a woman to smell innocent, like sunshine on roses, summer rain and the first breath of dawn? Sara did.

  She stopped trembling and relaxed, her soft, warm curves molded trustingly against him, touching him in some way he couldn’t explain.

  “S-sorry,” she said, her voice muffled against his jacket.

  “For what?”

  “For acting so stupid.”

  “It’s okay, angel. I do it all the time.”

  “Y-you mean, you cry?”

  “No, I act stupid.”

  Her shoulders shook again, but this time with a watery chuckle. Shifting away from the damp spot she’d created on his shoulder, she rested her forehead against the center of his chest with a tiny sigh.

  She fit so nicely tucked beneath his chin. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to pillow his cheek against the golden cloud of her hair.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I—I hate all these strange things I’m able to sense and feel. I get tired of—of being so different. I wish I could just be normal like everyone else.”

  “I don’t want you to be normal. I like you just fine the way you are.”

  “You do?” Sara raised her tearstained face to stare up at him, her blue eyes round with wonder and surprise.

  “Yeah, I do,” Mike said and was surprised himself to discover how much he really meant it.

  Sara’s lips quivered with a tremulous smile. “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone ever said to me.”

  No one had ever accused Mike Parker of being sweet before. He wasn’t quite comfortable with it, but he pressed a chaste kiss on her brow.

  And then another on the adorable tip of her nose. And then both eyelids, her gold-tipped lashes still damp from her tears. And then her cheeks....

  He should have stopped there. He really hadn’t intended to use this comfort thing as an excuse to put the moves on her. But it was Sara who wound her arms around his neck, offering her lips to him.

  What could he do but kiss her back, accepting her generous warmth like a cold, weary traveler coming home? Suddenly he was no longer sure exactly who was comforting whom.

  With a boldness that astonished her, Sara threaded her fingers through the thickness of Mike’s tawny mane,
holding his mouth fast against her own. He kissed her with a gentleness she would never have imagined him capable of, a tenderness that thrilled her to the core.

  When his mouth became more insistent, Sara allowed her lips to part, welcoming the hot play of his tongue against her own. The kiss was both fire and magic, going deeper than mere flesh, drawing her straight down into the recesses of Mike’s heart, a world of loneliness and aching needs.

  Needs she found not so different from her own. To hold and be held, to touch and be touched, to love...

  Their lips parted reluctantly as they each paused to draw in an unsteady gulp of air. Mike stared down at her, and for once his eyes were ablaze with a naked hunger, raw and vulnerable.

  He kissed her again, more fiercely this time, as though he would offer her all his desire, and Sara accepted, made it her own. Mike undid the band that bound up her ponytail and Sara’s hair spilled about her shoulders like a shower of silk. She didn’t think to protest, even when he tumbled her down onto the bed.

  His fingers found the swell of her breast, caressing her through the sheer fabric of her sundress and Sara moaned softly, pressing herself against the hard length of him, aware of the evidence of his arousal straining against the flap of his jeans. It should have alarmed her, but it didn’t, calling forth instead a primitive firing of her own blood.

  With increasing fervor, they embraced, stroked, caressed like two people discovering each other for the very first time. And yet, it all seemed so achingly familiar to Sara, as though she’d always known this man’s kiss, his touch, always been eager and ready for this moment, waiting....

  Mike eased the thin straps of her sundress down, breathing her name with a kind of reverence. He brushed his lips against the skin of her shoulder, sending shivers of heat rushing through her. He shifted her dress down farther still, baring her breast. He cupped his fingers around her, the soft mound molding perfectly to the callused warmth of his hand.