The Vampire Shrink(12)
Author: Lynda Hilburn

I knew she couldn't force me to divulge information, and I assumed she knew that, too.

"Wilson," Lieutenant Bullock barked at the tall, lanky policeman who hovered next to her, "make sure you get all the good doctor's contact information. I want to be able to find her day or night."

"I have it," he said, giving me cold eyes.

She squinted at me and growled, "Don't leave town."

And, like a fiery comet pulling meteorites in its tail, she left, taking all the officers with her.

Alan came over, sat next to me on the couch and patted my hand. "Now you know why her nickname is 'Bull'."

I reflexively flopped back against the cushions, letting my shoulders slump. My mouth was so dry it took me a couple of attempts before I could speak.

"What just happened here? All I did was find something and call it in. I was being a model citizen. Why am I sud­denly a suspect?"

"You're not, really. They're all freaked out because they haven't been able to solve any of the recent murders or find the missing girl. This is the first lead they've had in days. Lieutenant Bullock is taking this case very personally be­cause she knew the first murder victim. He was a friend of hers and she's a very loyal person. Don't let her get to you. I'll try to run interference."

I angled my head in his direction. "What about the gown? Do you think it was Emerald's? Why would someone bring it to my office?"

He shrugged. "Yesterday when you brought Emerald into the hospital, I was hanging around in intensive care, hoping to catch a glimpse of her after they cleaned her up. My persistence paid off because after they got the transfu­sion started, the nurse walked away for a minute, and I got a good look at Emerald. The gown in the envelope was exactly the same as the one she was wearing in the hospital. Now, whether or not the blood is hers, only the lab guys can tell us, but my money's on the likelihood that it is."

He studied his notebook, absently flipping through the pages, lost in thought, then gave me that serious eye contact he was so good at.

"You were the one who brought Emerald to the hospi­tal, so maybe giving the bloody gown to you was a message. Can you think of anyone who'd want to get something across to you that way? Any unusually psychotic clients? Anyone wanting to hurt you? Have you gotten any threats?"

He chewed on the end of his pen, observing my face ex­pectantly.

As soon as he mentioned psychotic clients, the memory of Bryce and Raleigh's visit invaded my brain, but I wasn't sure how much I could tell Alan—how much I could trust him. And, if I implicated Midnight in any of this, that was defi­nitely a breach of confidentiality. I decided to fall back on an old therapy technique: When in doubt, say nothing. It wasn't actually lying if I simply held back information. Therapists are required to be discerning. But I did take note that my comfort level with bending the truth was expanding. I men­tally added that to my list of things to worry about later.

I kept my expression relaxed and called on my Inner Sociopath. "No. I don't understand any of this. I can't imagine it has anything to do with me. Do you think Emer­ald is still alive?"

He studied the carpet and shook his head. "I wish I could be more encouraging, but if they've drained her blood again, it doesn't bode well. I'm hoping we can find out more tonight." He lifted his eyes to mine. "Are you still up for vis­iting The Crypt?"

Damn. I'd forgotten all about that. Maybe I could catch

Tom at his conference and cancel our visit. I wasn't inclined to let him use my office part-time, anyway, and I knew better than to be alone with him and a bottle of wine.

"Yes. I guess so. I'm not sure what good it will do, but since I'm involved now, I can't just walk away." And I had to admit I was curious about the place. Right. Who was I kid­ding? I was curious about Devereux.

Imagining the possibility of getting another glimpse of the platinum-haired fantasy object, I drifted off for a few sec­onds, indulging in a brief, R-rated mental interlude.

Sensing Alan's eyes on me, I shook myself out of my day­dream and wondered what the FBI profiler had seen on my face to cause the eyebrow-elevated, semi-suspicious expres­sion he wore on his.

I was about to inquire as to the meaning of that expression on his face when I got a strong intuitive hit that he thought I was hiding something. I simply knew what he was thinking and feeling. Just my usual. Daydreaming about Devereux must have distracted me from my mental stress-a-thon long enough for me to sense the subtle layers and become aware of Alan's energy. It did seem that my ability to psychically know things worked best when I wasn't consciously trying to use it. Yeah, that's helpful. Or maybe it was more accurate to say it worked best when I didn't get in the way.

It didn't seem possible that Alan could know anything about my erotic interest in Devereux, so his flash of distrust had to have something to do with Emerald. But it really didn't matter what he thought, because I wasn't hiding anything. Not really. In fact, I'd never felt more ineffectual and clueless.

And, besides. Even if he somehow did know about the contents of my fantasy, it wasn't any of his damn business, anyway.

He opened his mouth to speak and I stood, surprising him. The best defense is an offense. I'd had just about enough intrigue for one morning.

I turned to him, straightened my posture and checked my watch. "I have a client coming soon, so I need to get ready. Thanks for contacting the police and handling every­thing. I really appreciate it. I'll see you tonight."

He remained seated for a few seconds, his face still regis­tering confused surprise.

Shit Now he really thinks I'm up to something. He's sending out wave after wave of questions. I should've just asked him why he was staring at me that way. Now I’ve turned it into some big, strange deal. Why does he make me so nervous?

He finally stood slowly, his eyebrows contracted into a V, and offered a tight smile.

"Yeah, tonight, sure. See you then."

He walked to the door, glanced over his shoulder at me once and left, closing the door behind him.

"Well," I said out loud. "I certainly handled that with finesse and style. Let's hear it for the Queen of Mixed Mes­sages."

I forced myself to turn my attention back to work and set­tled in at my desk, intending to grab onto anything that seemed even remotely normal. Anything I felt competent to handle.

As I sat there, I remembered that I'd forgotten to tell the police about the phone calls from Brother Luther. It was probably just as well I hadn't, because it was most likely noth­ing. I'd been so caught up in the drama of the last few days that I was getting paranoid. Plus, telling Lieutenant Bullock something that might prove to be a false alarm was the last thing I intended to do.

***

Since Ronald had canceled his appointment and I'd resched­uled Fran, I had some time to myself before Spock was due for his session. I tried writing some case notes but kept getting distracted and staring out the window. I decided to stroll over to the 16th Street Mall, a pedestrian-friendly, outdoor shop­ping area in the heart of downtown Denver, and pick up some office supplies along with a bit of much-needed protein.

I roamed around the mall for a while, checking out the window displays and then made a beeline over to my favorite food cart. I didn't normally buy food off quirky carts in the middle of shopping malls, but one of my clients had raved about the quality of Maria's breakfast burritos, and because I was a fan of Mexican food, it was inevitable that I'd go sam­ple the goods.

Since I'd emptied out the contents of my stomach before the police arrived, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten before that, it was definitely time to refuel. I gave my­self a quick, internal lecture about needing to take better care of myself, and my mouth was already watering in response to the heavenly aromas wafting from the gastronomical oasis. The handsome young man standing at the cart was Juan, Maria's son, and we were on a first-name basis.

"Doctor Kismet! What's it gonna be today? Spicy or mild?'" he teased, as he scooped steaming scrambled eggs into a soft tortilla. He'd told me that he could tell what kind of mood I was in by the amount of hot peppers I asked for in my burrito. He called it Burrito Psychology.

"Better leave out the peppers today, Juan. I've had a rough morning."

He gave me a big, friendly smile, displaying perfect, white enamel. "Let me give you a couple of peppers on the side. I get the feeling that your day's about to change. Juan knows these things."

I smiled back at him, paid for the food and said I'd see him later, noticing with a chuckle that Juan's usual fan club— a crowd of giggling teenage girls—had swooped in on him the moment I walked away.

I sauntered down the mall and found a seat on a small wall enclosing an absurdly large sculpture of a cowboy-hat-clad man atop a bucking bronco. No doubt another sports symbol. Denver idolizes its football team. Maybe I should write a book about the psychology of spectator sports ad­diction. Or, maybe not. I already seemed to have enough enemies without stirring up the local Neanderthals.

I sat there, thoroughly enjoying the melt-in-my-mouth taste of Maria's masterpiece, and began to catch snatches of conversation coming from two women sitting at a folding table a few feet away from me. A little sign next to the table proclaimed, "Psychic Tarot Readings."

"No, that's not going to happen. He's not for you. Let go of him," said the woman facing me. She was spreading out Tarot cards on a colorful tablecloth, decorated with as­trological symbols. Her fingers were adorned with rings, her long fingernails painted sparkling silver, and there was an intricate tattoo on the back of her right hand. She wore a bright red dress with a shiny black vest and her long, gray hair flowed down into a pile in her lap.

The woman sitting with her was less than happy with her reading, because she sprang up, almost knocked over her chair, and yelled, "That's bullshit. You don't know what you're talk­ing about. He's my soul mate and you're wrong." She stomped off, muttering to herself about quacks and phonies.

I didn't want to embarrass the Tarot reader by letting her know I'd overheard the exchange, so I focused on my burrito, finishing up the last few tasty bites. The sound of laughter caught my attention and I raised my head to find her staring at me, making hand motions, inviting me to come to her table.

"Finish your breakfast and come on over. I've been wait­ing for you."

I scanned the area to see who she was talking to and when I couldn't find anyone else in the vicinity, I pointed to myself, "Me? No thank you. I don't believe in fortune telling."

She kept smiling at me and I had to admit I was im­pressed by her sales technique. Let people think that you had information just for them, and they'd probably sit down and fork over some greenbacks. It was basic psychology.

"No charge. Just come and listen for a few minutes. If you don't resonate with what I have to say, you can call me names and walk away."

Hmmm. This approach must work or else she wouldn't keep using it, but I couldn't see how she'd make a living by giving people the option of not paying. She had me, though. My curiosity was piqued. I wiped my hands on a napkin, folded up the paper that'd held the burrito, and carried it over to the trash can.

The Tarot reader was still smiling at me, shuffling her cards, waiting.

Curious, I walked over to her table. "Why would you want to read my cards for free? That can't be a very good way to make money."

"It's not my job to worry about where the money comes from. I just follow my intuition and everything seems to work out perfectly. Come on. Sit down. I am Cerridwyn."

Well, why not? Things had been so weird for the last week that this just fit right in. Why not let a Tarot reader on the mall tell me that I'd win the lottery, or that I was Cleopa­tra in a past life? How much more bizarre could it be than my morning so far?

She stopped shuffling the cards and handed them to me. "Just move the cards around, any way you wish. Put your es­sence into them."

I shuffled the cards and she continued to grin at me. Her eyes were a deep, dark purple—living amethyst—and they were surrounded by a network of fine lines, which were exag­gerated when she smiled. Her eyes sparkled, and she always seemed on the verge of laughing out loud. At first, I assumed she was old because of her gray hair, but sitting close to her, I could see she was much younger. Maybe not even forty.

She reached out for the cards, and I stopped shuffling and gave them to her. She inhaled a deep breath, closed her eyes for a few seconds, reopened them and began laying out the cards in a specific pattern. She gazed into my eyes. "You have been chosen. From this time forward nothing will ever be the same for you."

Well, that was nice and vague. It was right up there with "You'll meet a tall, dark stranger."

She chuckled. "How did one so young become so sceptical?"

Oh, goodie. Another mind reader.

She studied the cards and declared, "I see you surrounded by men. Two of them will offer you love, one brings danger. But he is only a messenger of the larger darkness. Your re­fusal to see things as they really are will put you and those you care about at risk."

She was quiet for a few seconds, unfocused eyes staring off into the distance, then she smiled widely. "Ah, you are playing with the vampires."

I must have let my mouth fall open, because she started laughing.

"You're surprised that I know?"

"Yes. I do work with people who believe they're vam­pires. You're very good."