Foreteller Page 11

  Another day in paradise for Detective Farnham, one of the lucky few whose office boasted a door—which he now slammed loudly. Not to block out the incessant noise of the mentally ill inmates and desperate muggers, but to fully express his anger at the unfortunate young clerk confessing to a monumental error. Officer Wilkinson stood in the corner, watching the exchange.

  “Say that again, Pinsky, this time with details.”

  “Corbin Black’s lawyer supposedly sent this guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Marles. He said his name was Chuck Marles. He gave me his card.”

  “Oh, well, he gave you a card,” Farnham said, sarcasm coating every word. “That makes him perfectly legitimate. It’s not as though any idiot can print a card on any damn computer anywhere in the city.”

  Pinsky wrung his hands so hard the skin began to peel. “He said if the Richmond police planned to charge Corbin Black with any additional crimes, they needed to know about it now. Called it disclosure or something.”

  “And don’t you think he would have taken it up with the Richmond police, where Black is being held?”

  Pinsky shrunk into the hard, wooden chair that Farnham had shoved him into earlier. “I didn’t do so well on procedure during exams.”

  Farnham knew what he was looking at: the result of the mayor’s third round of salary cuts for new recruits. It got so the department was taking high school dropouts and guys with juvenile records for jobs formerly held by full-fledged officers. This moron probably couldn’t spell disclosure, let alone define it.

  “So you gave him the whole file, our whole damn working file, on Zoey Kincaid and Corbin Black?”

  “Yes, sir. He made it sound like if I didn’t, I’d be breaking the law. I tried to call up here, but all the lines were busy.”

  Another result of the shrinking budget. The department had grown tenfold, but the twelve-year-old phone system hadn’t. “And I guess it didn’t occur to you to call my cell phone or to come find me.”

  “I tried your cell but it went to voice mail. And I can’t leave the file room unattended.”

  “So you mastered that in your procedures course, did you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pinsky said with too much pride.

  “You moron.”

  “Detective Farnham, that’s a little harsh,” Officer Wilkinson said in a voice so patronizing that Farnham cursed last year’s new regulation that guns could not be carried to internal meetings.

  “How harsh will it be when we have to tell Zoey Kincaid that her name is out there, ripe for the picking, by the likes of Corbin Black?”

  “But Black’s in custody,” Wilkinson said, “for the attempted Baxter rape in Richmond. By the time that thing gets to trial, the DNA results will be back and they can start building a case against the guy for the rape of Zoey Kincaid’s mother.”

  Detective Farnham’s disgust level reached an all-time high. He hated this city. He hated the low-lifes he arrested every day and the imbeciles forced upon him as co-workers. But more than all the others combined, he hated the system. Seething, he deigned to explain the situation to his dolt of a partner.

  “Do you have any idea how tough it’s going to be to build a credible case against this guy for a rape committed thirty years ago? Even if they prove that Zoey Kincaid is this guy’s daughter, that doesn’t prove rape. His lawyer could claim that Zoey’s mother was having an affair with Black, or that she was raped by someone else a few days after having consensual sex with Black, or that nobody can place Black at the scene of the crime. Getting the DNA match was going to be the first of many challenging steps. So you see how it might have been nice to keep Zoey’s name and address confidential?”

  “Well, uh, at least Ms. Kincaid seemed real smart,” Wilkinson said. “She didn’t seem like the type of person who would let this drop. I mean, if there’s a way to get this guy, she’ll probably spearhead it.”

  Farnham glared at the fool. Ideally, he’d wait until the far-reaching implications of Wilkinson’s statement sunk in to Wilkinson himself, but he didn’t have that kind of time. He spoke very slowly, as if to a youngster struggling with a math problem. “And if Mr. Black also figures that out, what kind of position do you think that puts Ms. Kincaid in, you know, in relation to Mr. Black?”

  Watching Wilkinson see the light might have been downright inspirational if it wasn’t so damn depressing. “Oh.”

  “That’s right. She’s the one person who could push this thing, who could dig up the necessary witnesses, or find a buried piece of evidence that the overworked officers down there might find too daunting. She’s a regular walking body of evidence with a big old grudge to settle.” Farnham forced a mocking smile. “And now he knows where she lives.”

  Pinsky piped up in a small, hopeful voice. “Don’t you think he’ll at least get convicted for the attempted Baxter rape? It would give Ms. Kincaid enough time—”

  “Two little problems there, Pinsky. I received word last night that the evidence in the attempted rape on Baxter was compromised. Black’s lawyer knows about it, of course. And Elena Baxter, the victim, is now in the loony bin and won’t talk to the police anymore, so their DA might not even pursue the case.” He continued in a tone of forced, sardonic merriment. “They love to drop cases because, like us, they’ve got a rape backlog longer than your list of excuses for being an idiot.”

  Wilkinson took offense for Pinsky, and showed it with a petulant click of his tongue.

  Farnham glared at both of them. “One last thing, on the off chance you two haven’t thought of it yet.”

  They both peered at the floor, knowing they hadn’t, but trying hard.

  “If the charges against Black are dropped, the DNA sample they took when he was arrested might become inadmissible. If it does, we won’t even be able to compare it to Zoey’s.”

  “But both samples must be at the lab by now,” Pinsky said.

  “Exactly. And that’s where you come in, Pinsky. I need a favor, and I’m not exactly asking, if you know what I mean.”

  “I guess I owe you.” Pinsky’s voice contained humility with a touch of hope that he could regain some lost ground.

  “Good,” Farnham said. “I figure we have a few days at most before the attempted rape charges get dropped and the paperwork goes through to stop the DNA comparison.”

  “Sounds about right,” Pinsky said.

  “You’re going to get us the results of that test before then.”

  “But results normally take weeks.”

  “Not if all the proper forms are filled out, accompanied by a letter requesting a special priority for the case. Signed by our commissioner, of course.”

  “I’ve got all those forms at my disposal but the commissioner hates to ask for favors. I don’t think—”

  “You’re pretty familiar with the commissioner’s signature, aren’t you, Pinsky?”

  Pinsky didn’t catch on right away. This time, Farnham delighted in seeing the lights come on in someone’s head. Ah, there it was.

  “And you’re pretty good at filling out every last detail on those forms, aren’t you, Pinsky?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve got two hours.”

  Chapter 20

  Lynchburg, Virginia

  Zoey suffered through another bad night of sleep in a motel that didn’t break her budget, but also failed to offer amenities like comfortable mattresses. She rose to a cloudy, hot day with substantial winds kicking up dust outside, a sign of the thunderstorm surely coming. They came and went like trains here in Lynchburg, Virginia.

  Even though her stomach ached for a decent meal, she needed to shower first. After turning on the water to let it warm up, she took off her T-Rex tee-shirt and shorts and caught a glimpse of her naked body in the hotel’s warped mirror. The reflection of her taut stomach, still able to hide its secret, caused a rush of mental images of her mother—pregnant.

  Although Zoey’s pregnancy held little joy so far, she w
ondered how much worse her mother’s situation had been as she carried an anonymous rapist’s baby. And how did that knowledge damage her relationship with Zoey’s father, the mysterious Matthew Collette? As the water heated up, steam seeped over the shower curtain and began to fill the room from the top. Zoey continued gazing into the mirror, trying to remember anything she could about her parents. She could almost recall her mother’s thick, burnt-orange hair and for some reason, could picture her in a smart skirt with a fitted blouse, but the rare memories of her mother always came with the smell of a well-used bed, one occupied for long stretches by a person too ill to leave it for long. That must have been toward the end.

  The steam began clinging to the mirror. It climbed down to Zoey’s eye level. She concentrated hard, not wanting to lose the fragile thread of memory reaching out to her. A vague image of her father formed, as if made by the microscopic water droplets filling the air around her. And in her mind, they turned into drops of paint. Her father had always been crafting something, it seemed. The paint droplets grew into a Jackson Pollock-like creation while music notes floated and danced in the background. Her father had definitely been the creative type. As vague a recollection as it was—she was certain she wasn’t remembering a specific painting or song—the aura of an artist or musician accompanied his image. As she tried to wring out something precise, the mirror clouded over as surely as her memories. With downcast eyes, she stepped into the shower.

  Five minutes later, as she turned off the water, her cell phone rang and she got excited. But her enthusiasm waned when she realized it was the plain dong tone, not the Superman theme song she’d recently programmed for Jake in honor of his Clark Kent profession. She wrapped herself in a towel and retrieved the phone from her purse, the Caller ID indicating only Virginia.

  “Hello,” Zoey said.

  “Zoey?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Delightful! I knew you as Kyra, but Zoey’s very palatable.” The voice on the other end of the line spoke at lightning speed with more than a hint of animation and glee.

  “Is this Bernadette?”

  “None other! We must meet.”

  Before Dora and Zoey had parted, Dora had promised she would contact Susan Collette’s dearest friend, Bernadette McClain, who had known Susan since high school. Although no one had realized it back then, Susan and Bernadette had likely bonded over their status as freaks. While Susan could foretell specific future episodes, Bernadette had harbored a more traditional psychic gift, able to pick up people’s current concerns. The two friends had reunited in Richmond in their twenties and had remained close until Susan’s dying day. Since Dora had worked for Susan, she and Bernadette had become close as well.

  According to Dora, Bernadette had returned to her parents’ place in Lynchburg about eighteen months ago to care for her ailing mother. She resided in an outbuilding there that had been converted into a guest cottage, all of which was the reason Zoey had spent the night in Lynchburg.

  Zoey made arrangements to meet Bernadette in ninety minutes, after reviewing directions that included details like, “Take a left on the dirt road after the break in the fence,” and, “Don’t be startled by my father’s bull.”

  Zoey hung up and dressed in a simple pair of olive capris and a loose-fitting rayon shirt with olive and black flowers. An hour later, after a quick breakfast at a diner, Zoey negotiated poorly marked roads that wound through corn and tobacco fields in various states of growth. She knew she was in the vicinity of Bernadette’s place, but still couldn’t find the precise road after three futile U-turns. An elderly man hobbling with a cane on the side of the road looked none too happy about the dust Zoey’s car had kicked up on its last pass, but with no other options, Zoey stopped and put down her window.

  “Excuse me,” she said. No acknowledgment whatsoever. “Excuse me,” she said more loudly, waving her hands out the window, as if the man would notice her flagellating hands through the dust storm when he’d already missed the 3000-pound rental car in front of him.

  “What do you want?” he said. “You one of them freaks?”

  “Excuse me?” Zoey’s third repetition of the phrase took the form of a surprised question.

  “One of them psychic medium ghost-spotters?”

  Zoey clutched her steering wheel tightly, feeling both frightened and defensive due to the oddness of the man’s question and the loathing it conveyed. He leaned both his hands against her open car window, letting his cane dangle from his wrist and bang against the car door. She considered pressing the accelerator—hard—and leaving this old coot in a swirl of dust, but she hadn’t seen anyone else in the vicinity for twenty minutes.

  “I’m looking for Bernadette McClain,” she said. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I? Gotta know where they are if you wanna avoid ‘em. Think I’m stupid?”

  She repressed the urge to say yes, instead responding as if he’d answered politely. “Can you point me in the right direction, then?”

  The man pointed straight down, following his hand with his eyes, then jerking his head back up to meet Zoey’s confused expression. “Down to hell. That’s where y’all should go. Straight to hell. It ain’t natural and it ain’t right.”

  Zoey’s fear dissipated, replaced now by anger. Was he referring to Bernadette’s psychic powers? If so, it hardly called for this level of ignorance and hostility. Had her mother experienced similar derision?

  “Sir, I don’t know how you got to be so cultured, but I am merely looking for Bernadette McClain, my dead mother’s best friend. Can you help me or not?” Apparently, she wasn’t above playing the dead card.

  The man, while far from turning contrite, at least seemed to soften a bit. He pulled his hands off the car and leaned on his cane. Without looking at her, he said, “You missed it a half-mile back. Turn around and take a right where you see that red bush bloomin’. The road’s near covered by the damn kudzu growin’ all over the place, but it’s there. You’ll find her, prob’ly in the back.”

  Zoey uttered a reluctant, “Thank you,” then spun her car around gently so as not to spray him. He had at least provided directions and surprisingly, they turned out to be accurate. She pulled up to a small, white cottage in one of the most rustic, serene settings she’d ever seen. Surrounded by a pine forest that offered a soft bed of needles for a border, the quaint cottage overflowed with robust hanging plants and flower boxes. Bernadette emerged from behind a green gate that fronted a garden brimming with azaleas, daffodils, tulips and a rainbow of wildflowers. Zoey could hear running water and suspected a koi pond in the backyard haven.

  Bernadette approached with outstretched arms. She appeared insanely normal compared to what Zoey had been picturing, especially after the encounter with the bitter man. Tall and thin with stylish glasses, she wore a flowing, empire-waisted, hot pink top over fashionable jeans and practical sneakers which surprised with their aqua, polka-dot print. Her narrow face and long nose contrasted with a very wide mouth and full lips, the overall impression being that of a bookworm with a naughty side who could pass for ten years younger than her age.

  Bernadette threw her arms around Zoey and actually lifted her off the ground a good three inches.

  “Whoa!” Bernadette exclaimed. “Dora didn’t tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Zoey asked, finally released.

  “In eight months, Susan would have been a grandmother.”

  Tears of joy sprung to Bernadette’s eyes and Zoey surmised that this woman wore every emotion on her sleeve. She also wondered if Bernadette possessed an amazing eye for detail or had just shot the first arrow through Zoey’s canvas of skepticism regarding psychic powers.

  “How did you know I was pregnant?”

  “It’s what I do.” Bernadette’s speaking cadence rivaled that of a New York auctioneer.

  Zoey accepted, for now, Bernadette’s blasé excuse for an extraordinary power. “I’m s
orry I’m late—”

  “You get lost?”

  “At the end. I asked an elderly man for—”

  “Oh, you met Daddy. Well, I told you to look out for his bull.” Bernadette cackled and nearly bent over double in her amusement.

  Zoey’s surprise showed.

  “Ah, don’t give him a second thought,” Bernadette said. “He lost the filter between his brain and mouth years ago. And he’s been a bear since Mother died.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’d—”

  “Two weeks ago. But with a ready spirit. Don’t despair.”

  Bernadette patted Zoey on the shoulder as if she were the one in need of comfort.

  “Your father seemed disbelieving regarding—”

  “Oh yes, completely. Deep inside, he does believe and it scares him to no end. Contradicts that strict religious upbringing that hamstrung him most of his life.” She waved both hands in the air as if to release a handful of fairies. “I let him be who he needs to be. He still loves me. We manage.”

  Zoey realized she’d only need half-thoughts or semi-sentences to have a full conversation with Bernadette. She liked her mother’s friend already; there’d be no phoniness, false modesty, or pretentious airs allowed in her presence.

  “Are you a good cook?” Bernadette asked. “Like your mother?”

  “No, not even close.”

  “She was in demand, a great caterer, you know. Only did small events, of course, because she did most of the work herself, but she did love to flit about the kitchen.”

  “Guess it skips a generation.”

  Bernadette laughed as if Zoey had made the best joke in the world. “Your mother was my best friend, you know.” She grabbed Zoey’s hand and led her to the back garden. It turned out to be even more beautiful than its distant view had hinted. A four-level fountain, while containing no koi fish, did provide a lovely musical accompaniment to the birds that darted in and out of the eight scattered feeders. Flowering cherry blossoms and a full, lush lilac bush offered a feast for the nose. Large, hand-painted stones marked a pathway to a pergola under which sat two hand-carved chairs. Bernadette led Zoey to them. Though they appeared uncomfortable, Zoey thought she’d never sat in anything that conformed more readily to her body, as if she had been the model for its woodworker.