Rob Thurman - All Seeing Eye

Allgood and four technicians in white lab coats were conferring around a table loaded down with machinery, some of which looked oddly familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly had cranked up that uneasy feeling tickling the back of my brain, but something had. With my less-than-loyal and unmuzzled guard dog at my back, I moved down the shallow tile steps to the front row of seats and sat down. At least there was no fold-out desk or number two pencils. Without looking up, Hector dismissed my new best friend. Seconds later, he straightened, took me in, and ordered dispassionately, “Sergeant, stop.” Only a sergeant? I was surprised that his cream hadn’t risen a little further to the top. An amoral, fun-loving sadist like him should be a general by now.

Suddenly, Hector was looming over me with assessing eyes-Charlie’s eyes-studying my face. “What happened?”

Although the question was directed at me, Sergeant Sunshine decided to provide an answer. “He tried to make a run for it. I had to clock him one.”

“Is that so?” This time, Hector made sure I was involved in the conversation. “Mr. Eye, is that what happened?”

Snorting, I stretched my legs out and raised my eyebrows. “Oh, yeah,” I commented sardonically. “I was halfway over the fence before your boy caught me. I was like a frigging gazelle in that mud.”

“And the hell with your sister,” he said quietly.

I tapped a socked toe against the floor and responded with a yawn that automatically had my hand wanting to cradle my screaming jaw. I fisted it and held back. Never let anyone see a

weakness: Cane Lake 101.

“That’s right. The hell with Glory.”

I didn’t bother to tell the truth; I didn’t bother to lie. Why? What would be the point? What did it matter? It wasn’t up to me who Allgood would believe. People typically made up their minds without any messy facts or, God forbid, the actual truth. Trying to tell my side of it wouldn’t accomplish much more than making my jaw hurt worse.

“I see.” Hector started up the stairs. “Borelli, come with me.”

Allgood wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he obviously ranked higher than the sergeant, as Borelli turned smartly and followed him. It was nearly twenty minutes before Hector returned, alone. He had a bottle of water with him and a small container of Tylenol. He handed them to me, sat in the seat next to mine, and asked, “Do you need medical attention?”

I popped the top on the Tylenol and gave him a curious sideways glance. “No. I’ve had worse. Sergeant Sunshine hits like a girl.”

He looked like he wanted to give a snort of his own, then he offered matter-of-factly, “Well, he’ll have time to grow into a woman now. He’s in lockup, and there his ass will stay until I say differently. I don’t tolerate abuse from my men.”

“Yeah, it’s only the upstanding blackmail you go for.” Ignoring the water, I dry-swallowed a nonrecommended dose of the painkiller. “When do we get this show on the road?”

“And he only punched you the once? What restraint.” He rubbed a hand over a suddenly tired face. Judging by the lines in his face, Hector had skipped more than last night’s sleep. He looked years older than his age, with a weariness that only comes from many sleepless nights. “It won’t be long. Leave your gloves on. I want the results of this experiment to be immaculate. We don’t have time for anything less, not now.” Allgood was wearing a lab coat, too, and I was beginning to think he came by it honestly.

“What are you, Allgood?” I demanded abruptly. “A scientist? A soldier? What the hell are you?”

“Why can’t I be both?” he responded with faint amusement. He stood, fished around in one coat pocket, and tossed me two pudding cups and a plastic spoon. “Here, breakfast. It’s all we have time for.” Then he added with mocking humor, “And it’s soft.”

So much for sympathy. I gave an internal grumble. My stomach echoed that grumble, and I peeled the plastic film from the top of the first cup and went to work. Chocolate caramel. Not bad. By the time I polished both of them off, my “peers” had arrived. In one big group, they must’ve been bused in. Bright-eyed and chipper, I’d have bet they all had more than a pudding cup for breakfast. And if I thought their eyes were bright, I only had to take a good look at their clothes. Jesus Christ. I slumped down lower in the chair.

My people, joy.

Yeah, I’d admit to playing to the crowd. It was part of the gig. But there was a line I drew. These guys played cat’s cradle with that line, and they did it while wearing velvet robes and rhinestone-studded turbans. Although, to be completely honest, there were a few who went in the other direction. They dressed like college professors or Matrix extras. Dark suits, turtlenecks, a discreet diamond-accented watch. Hell, one guy even had a TV show. It was local to New York, but I caught it occasionally on cable and laughed myself sick. New York… Allgood had indeed cast his net far and wide. I wondered what story he’d told them-the same one he’d tried to spin in my office? A nice, safe, academic study of psychic phenomena? Didn’t those guys see the fence, the guards? I snorted into my empty pudding cup. Psychic, my ass. They didn’t even qualify as mildly observant.

“Jackson, sugar, is that you?”

I rolled my eyes upward to see a familiar face. “Madame,” I said easily. “I’m surprised to see you here. Funny how fast five to ten flies.”

The round face hardened as mascara-ringed eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “Always the sweet talker, aren’t you, Eye?”

I raised the unopened water bottle in her direction. “A toast. Accused but never convicted. You give us all something to shoot for, Joyce.”

Joyce Ann Tingle, otherwise known as Madame Maya Eilish, was self-proclaimed queen of Atlanta. Hell, she all but ruled the tristate area. She was as adept at dodging charges as she was at robbing her clients blind. Not content simply to deal the cards or gaze blankly into a crystal ball, she sold spells and curse removals. Two thousand was the going rate for the latter. Pretty good money to wave a chicken feather in your general direction. And then there was the rumor that she’d had a rival’s shop burned down-while he was in it. A canny businesswoman, indeed. A seared lump in the burn unit doesn’t provide much in the way of competition.

With a sweep of silk muumuu, she waddled off and left me to my devices. Here was hoping I had an untorched shop left to go home to… that is, if I survived this. The rest of the “psychics” milled about before finally settling into chairs scattered throughout the room. Before us, they were assembling cubicles; back to back, there were eight total. Apparently, this was going to be the assembly line of paranormal testing. In and out and moving on to the next self-made Nostradamus. And that was precisely how it went. Four at a time, the guinea pigs were shuffled down one at a time to individual carpeted boxes, where whitecoats waited for them in opposite cubicles. The shared wall prevented any visual cues to the psychics, and from the flat drone of the voices asking the questions, audio cues weren’t exactly flying fast and loose, either. With nothing but the backs of interchangeable inquisitioners to look at and unable to make out their low mutter, I let my lids fall and indulged in a short snooze. It didn’t seem long, but when a hand at my shoulder shook me awake, more than two-thirds of the clairvoyant crowd was gone. Lucky them.

“Your turn.”

I looked up at Hector and pasted a grin on my aching face. “Ready to be dazzled?” I hoped it would be by my amazing talent for utter and complete bullshit. Lying to prove I wasn’t psychic-it had to be a first in this group.