Callie's Redemption (Callie's Secret Book 3) Page 9

  "Felicity, and this is my friend Alysia."

  "I'm happy to meet you. How did you know I was from the US?"

  "Mommy said you were coming, and that you were from Minnesnota. Is that in the US?" Danielle laughed and didn't bother correcting the girl.

  "I wonder how your Mommy knew that?"

  "She knows everything. That's why everyone asks her for wisdom, because she is so smart."

  "Felicity, don't talk the ears off our pretty guest. You can play for a little while yet, then you need to come in." A tall woman had appeared behind the dilapidated screen door. She eased it open. "You need to come in woman, the men around here see you, they will break down my front door trying to woo you."

  She was nearly as tall as Danielle, her hair tied back in cornrows by a white scarf. She wore a simple print dress, and a pair of flipflops. She led Danielle through a small porch into a dimly lit kitchen with a small table and three metal framed chairs. She pointed at one of the chairs, pulled open the refrigerator and produced two beers. She sat down and popped hers open, taking a long drink, then pushed the other one at Danielle. "So, say your piece. Did you come all this way to try to make nice between me and my uncle?"

  "He is worried, but I came for more than that." Danielle knew at a glance, that this long lost distant cousin shared more than just her ancestry, she had the Gift. "You should go and stay with them for a while, it won't be safe here, not for you, and not for your daughter."

  "And what calamity is it, that I should crawl back to those two, after they called me a Witch and said I practice black magic, the Obeah. The idiots!"

  "My friends, people like us, they say that Kingston will have an earthquake, a very bad one. The things that are bad here, they will only get worse. If things get very bad, there will be riots, looting. I have not seen that myself, but there are bad minded people here, along with the good."

  "Does my uncle call you Witch too?" She smiled. "I am glad to hear there are women like us in America. I only know of a couple others in Jamaica, but I've always thought there must be more. I tell people the future, and they give me a few dollars, but most of them are afraid of me. They will not dare to harm me."

  "We are not Witches, Kendra. I haven't got a broomstick, how about you?" She chuckled.

  "That is why they fear me, they don't understand it. I don't either, but it doesn't scare me."

  "If you're like me, you can't see what is coming for you, you're too close to it. I can't say for sure you're in danger, I am too close as well. But take your daughter out of here, please, just until after Independence Day. My friends say it will happen before then."

  "I will not go groveling to them. Perhaps their big fancy house will be swallowed into a big crack in the ground, it is what they deserve! I will stay here with my daughter and we will meet our Fate, whatever it is." Danielle explained the increase in seismic activity, how Lucinda Mitchel agreed with the fears of the Sisters, all to no avail. She finally changed the subject, telling her host about her life in Minnesota, and about the group of psychics she belonged to. The inflections in the woman's voice took her back to her childhood, to the rare times she and her mother had spent together. It was nice. Then it was time to leave.

  "Momma, can Alysia stay overnight?" The two young girls stood side by side, their noses pressed against the screen of the porch door.

  "We'll call her mother, come inside now, and say goodbye to Danielle, she has to leave before it gets dark."

  Defeated, Danielle drove back to her hotel and showered. In the morning, the earthquake expert would be arriving, and she had to meet her. She hoped the woman would be more persuasive than she had been so far. Maybe hard science could convince Lamar and the local officials, because so far, she wasn't having much luck.

  Chapter Twelve

  Callie Fisher shot straight up bed, sweat drenched and shaking. She glanced over at her bedmate, relieved that for a change, she hadn't disturbed the red head, hadn't called out in her sleep. The dream had started with Danielle, a repeat of the same dream that had prompted the picture of her lying in the street, bleeding. Then it took a turn, and became about events she was normally not privy to, her own future.

  She often had dreams in which she felt as if she was part of whatever event was playing out. But in those dreams, she inhabited someone else's reality, felt whatever trauma was coming for them, be it a rape in Afghanistan, or an earthquake in Jamaica. This was different, this was not supposed to happen. In this dream, she was the one captive, the one bound to a chair, the one who couldn't see.

  She had often joked about the fact that none of the Gifted knew their own fate, and how that was a good thing. It was one thing to twist circumstances to help other people, but she had always assumed that whatever force allowed them access to other people's futures, saw fit to deny them their own for good reason. It was one of the better arguments Jenny had for the existence of God. Physics might someday have an explanation, some random theory as yet undiscovered, as to the origins of their abilities. But if it were simply physics, if their minds somehow grabbed occurrences through time in some physically explainable way, then why not their own future, why was it always someone else's? Or was that God, just making sure individuals didn't game the system, outlive his intentions? It had always been that way. Every psychic she knew, herself included, could not see their own destiny. At least, not until now.

  She was sure, that the person in her dream had been her. She had smelled smoke, heard the crackling of a log in a fireplace, and felt the bite of some sort of rope scraping her wrists, holding her arms behind her. She was sure she was tied to a chair, and her eyes had been covered. She remembered being afraid, but not for herself. Somehow, she knew she wasn't really in danger, but others might be. Was that why she was allowed access to her own fate? Was it important to avoid whatever this dream depicted, in order to protect other people?

  She slipped out of bed and went down to the kitchen, made a snack, then quietly went back up to the spare room and opened her paints. She had hoped for some further insight, some inspiration that painting sometimes gave her, but nothing new materialized on the canvas. She had painted herself, tied to a chair, but strictly from memory of the dream, there was nothing more illuminating to help identify the circumstances. She pulled the page from the easel and folded it, then threw it into the trash. The last thing she wanted was for Jenny to see it. Danielle in Jamaica was enough for her.

  She recreated the scene with Danielle, hoping that somehow her vision might have changed, but the end result was the same, Danielle, bleeding and on the ground. Her mother had implied once, that proximity made a difference, that being close physically helped make the connection stronger. Maybe if she were there, she could sense exactly what peril awaited Danielle, warn her in time, or help her change the outcome.

  Whatever else her latest dream depicted, she was sure it wasn't in Jamaica. The wood smoke and a fireplace implied a colder climate, like Minnesota. There was a certainty in it. She was sure that somewhere in the future, she would find herself tied to that chair. Oddly, that implied that she could go to Jamaica without fear. Or was that the point of the dream, to free her to help Danielle? If there was a chance that she could intervene in the future she had envisioned for Danielle, she would have to go. Convincing Jennifer to let her go alone would be the hard part.

  As if on cue, the redhead appeared at the door, looking glumly at the painting of the street in Jamaica.

  "You're going, aren't you?"

  "Are you psychic now too?"

  "No, I just know you. And I know you won't let me come, so I won't even ask."

  "I had the strangest dream, Jenny. I saw myself, my own future. I didn't think that was possible."

  "About Jamaica?"

  "No, long after, just a glimpse. But enough to know that I'll be coming back to you."

  "Okay, just be damn sure to bring Danielle along with you. She just got Anna back, she can't die down there now. When will you leave?"

>   "Can't get a flight until Monday, so we can still go home and see the folks if you want. If we go up today and drive back tomorrow night, I'll have all day Sunday to pack and figure things out. I still haven't told my Dad about school."

  ***

  There were occasions when Fatty Carson had been able to be selective where his jobs were concerned. But most times, his first rule was anything for a buck. He wasn't sure about his present case, it seemed a little sketchy. Callie Fisher had him tailing the young lawyer, Ozzy Marsh. He was supposed to keep an eye on him, let her know the minute something happened out of the ordinary. Why, he wondered, would she want him to do that?

  He was aware that one of the members of his girlfriend's group was the Blackburn woman, and that she and the Marsh family had ties, before her untimely death. And he was aware that the Blackburn kid had met with Jonathan Marsh, Ozzy's father. How much of that was about Madeline Rice, and how much was about the money, Fatty couldn't say. Probably he had bugged the wrong office. But none of that seemed connected to the kid.

  So far, Oswald Marsh seemed like a model citizen. He went to NA meetings twice a week, which Callie had mentioned. There were no signs of a drug relapse. He spent every day at the Marsh Law offices, eight to four, sometimes five. Seemed serious about running for the state senate. Fatty sat in on a couple of speeches, and had to admit the kid was a good speaker. It did seem like his life was kind of boring, which was making Fatty's life kind of boring.

  But Deeann insisted that Callie had seen something, some vision of the future, and that Ozzy might be up to no good. That was the problem Fatty had with the whole psychic thing. They never seemed to know exactly what was going to happen. Either you could see the future, or not, right? Of course, if you knew exactly what would happen, why hire a private investigator? Bottom line, he was getting paid pretty well for doing very little, and he got to spend several nights a week at Deeann Long's house. Better to not complain.

  He had a tracking device on the kid's car, a simple chip that sent a signal to his phone so he knew where to find him, should he disappear in traffic. Technology had made tracking people easy, too easy it seemed, and Fatty often wondered if his occupation was in jeopardy. Up to this point, keeping tabs on Ozzy Marsh had been easy, he was always where he was supposed to be.

  Early Tuesday afternoon, Fatty decided to grab lunch at the little restaurant down the street from the lawyer's office. Sitting in his van, staring at a building was getting ridiculous, no matter what the compensations were, and he was hungry. He wandered in and took a seat by the window, grabbed a coffee and ordered. He was half way through his bowl of soup when he glanced down the street and realized the kid's car was gone. He checked his app and saw that it was working perfectly, so he took his time finishing lunch. The kid was probably just going to a meeting.

  After he paid his tab he got into his van and checked the location. Okay, not the usual location for Ozzy's meetings, and not a good part of town. Worth driving up there to have a look. Fatty knew the area well. It was possible there was an alternative explanation for the Marsh kid being there, but it was a tough area, plenty of drugs available.

  He spotted Ozzy's car parked across the street from a rundown bar. There were half a dozen motorcycles outside and as many cars in the half full lot. Fatty had been in the bar before, trying to track down a runaway teenage girl for her parents. It was a seedy stop on the way to the bottom. The owner didn't sell drugs, but some of his clientele did, anything you wanted, pick your poison.

  The neighborhood was in the same condition as the bar. Two of the houses nearby looked empty, windows shattered, the deck railings broken, grass that hadn't been mowed all summer. There were two duplexes on the other side of the street and a man sat on the front step of one of them, smoking a cigarette. Fatty sat watching the front door of the bar. It seemed out of character for the young lawyer to come half way across town just to buy his drugs. It wasn't hard to get a fix just about anywhere, if you were determined and knew who to ask. Considering the fact that he was in treatment for narcotics, the kid probably had connections closer to home, and the product would be less suspect. But, since his rehabilitation was court ordered, maybe he was worried about getting a fix in his own neighborhood. Sad, Fatty mused, how dope got its hooks into you.

  He'd waited almost an hour when he spotted Ozzy Marsh. But he didn't come out of the bar, as expected. Fatty had all his attention on the bar's parking lot, watching what looked to be the start of a domestic between one of the bikers and his girlfriend, when Ozzy Marsh appeared across the street. He had left one of the duplexes, and he was tucking something into his pocket. Drugs? Fatty cursed himself, which door had he come out of? He wasn't even sure which building. He watched as Ozzy got in his car and drove off.

  Where had he bought the drugs, if indeed it had been drugs, that he had slipped into his pocket? Never assume, Fatty reminded himself. He had assumed that the young lawyer was in the bar, and look where that got him. He had to try to find out which of the four units Ozzy had just come from. He crawled into the back, pulled out a shirt and hat and put them on. Then he grabbed his clipboard and walked down the street to the first duplex. The man smoking the cigarette was gone, so Fatty knocked on the door of the apartment where he'd been sitting.

  "Center-point Energy, sir. We have a report of a possible gas leak in the area. Have you noticed any unusual odors? I noticed you were sitting outside earlier." The man was elderly, too old to be selling dope, if Fatty was any judge. He waved a bony finger in the direction of the bar.

  "The only odors around here come from that dump across the street, and it sure as hell isn't natural gas, if you know what I mean."

  "Thanks, I'll check with your neighbor."

  "He ain't home. I think he's in jail cause he didn't pay his child support."

  "Well, thanks, I'll knock quick anyway." Fatty knocked, then he peeked through the glass and tried the door. It was locked, and all the lights were off. He walked down to the other duplex, knocked on the closest door and got no answer. There was an old Taurus sitting next to the duplex, on the side he hadn't tried yet. When he stepped to the door, he could hear the television.

  The woman that answered the door could have been a dealer. If so, she looked like she sampled plenty of her own product. Fatty guessed her to be a few years younger than he was, but it was hard to be sure. She was bone thin, and the skin below her cheeks had begun to collapse into the edges of her mouth where her molars had once been. Her hair was thin and cut short, unkempt looking. Her front teeth were showing wear too, the ones that were left, but she gave Fatty her best smile.

  "I'm with the gas company Ma'am, have you noticed any unusual odors, are your appliances working properly?"

  "No, I haven't smelled anything. I had company and boiled some water for tea. The stove seemed to work fine."

  "Well, that's all I needed then, you have a nice day." He wanted to work the conversation around to Ozzy somehow, maybe ask if it was the young candidate for Senate that he'd seen leave the house, but Meth addicts were known for being paranoid. He was sure it had to be the place Ozzy had just come from. Hot tea? Was that a new name for it? He double checked the listing, verified her name, then made the phone call. Too bad, the kid had seemed to be straightening out his life. But Fatty had been told to call Callie Fisher if Ozzy did anything out of the ordinary, and this qualified.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday was always busy at the Norman Manley airport, and traffic to and from was congested. People were flying out, their week of business concluded, heading back to wherever the home office was, and the tourists were arriving, some for a four-day weekend of sun and debauchery, some for a week long holiday. They were all in Danielle's way. Traffic was inevitable as the sunrise, and such things seldom annoyed her, but so far her warnings were going unheeded, and she wanted people to listen.

  It was hard to convince people that you knew an earthquake was about to strike. Hurricanes sure, you could turn o
n the television and see it coming, listen to the probabilities of it missing, or barreling straight into you, the way Gilbert had. But it was a visible threat, something people could, and did prepare for. The warnings of an earthquake were insidious, maybe a few foreshocks, too subtle to notice or raise alarm, maybe a small quake that only got a mention over breakfast. Then maybe the big one, or maybe not. But Danielle had a lot of faith in Callie Fisher's paintings, and the visions of the Sisters. The big one was coming to Kingston, and she was stuck in traffic.

  By the time she made it to the terminal, parked, and checked the flight status, she was half an hour late. The plane was delayed, so she still had to wait another hour. She sent a text to Lucy and sat in the baggage claim area, people watching and trying to relax. She thought about Anna, and thought about the painting Callie had done of her lying face down on the ground. Could fate be that cruel? Give her back the love of her life, for just one night? She was glad Callie had shared what she had painted, you couldn't change what you didn't know. But how much of that was fixed? Sometimes, Fate got its way after all, no matter what they did to change it. Danielle was seldom afraid, but she seldom had so much to lose.

  An hour after she sat down, a small group of travelers walked up to the carousel and stood waiting for their luggage. The flight from the Caymans wasn't a large one, a few dozen passengers, mostly businessmen. Danielle only saw half a dozen women, and Lucinda Mitchel wasn't hard to spot.

  She was younger than Danielle had imagined, mid-twenties. Fit and healthy looking, but not overly thin. She looked like she could probably carry her share of the equipment. Her dark hair was tied back into a tight ponytail and her black rim glasses had fallen half way down her nose. She had on a short sleeve khaki shirt and shorts, and a pair of hiking boots. A Pith helmet, hung from its string which was tied around her neck. Danielle walked up to her and extended a hand.