Rob Thurman - All Seeing Eye

Or so the story went.

It was a legend that had lived for hundreds of years. Trouble was, it couldn’t be backed up by any records. There had been a Jeremiah and Felicity Farrell, and they had had several children. That had been confirmed by an old church registry. There could’ve been a murder… or seven or ten. Or they could’ve moved back to the Old Country or out West. It was all lost in the mists of time. Until me.

Great.

We pulled up to the house… or what was left of it. The porch was a sagging disaster area, and the windows and front door were boarded up. I climbed out of the car and glanced askance at the moldering ruin. “Not exactly on the tour of historic houses, I take it.”

“Not quite. They’re working on it, I hear.” As Hector strode through the knee-high weeds, I heard the rustle of a snake heading for the high ground. “Preserving history is an admirable goal.”

“Yeah? I don’t see any historical society lining up to support my ass, and I’m all about history.” I looked up at the second story, which was covered by a creeping wall of poison ivy. “And I’m much better-looking than this heap.”

“A great opportunity missed on their part, I’m sure.” He went to the trunk and pulled out a crowbar. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll have us inside.”

Ah, that would be hell no.

“I am not going in there, Hector. No way, no how.” I made my way through the weeds to the porch and pulled off a glove. “If fourteen murders actually took place here, I’ll just have to touch a wall to know. I don’t need to be feeling around for phantom blood on the floor. Jesus. You want to see another seizure?”

“I stand corrected.” After leaning the crowbar against the car, he followed me. I’d started to climb up onto the porch, but after a good look at the gaping holes and the warped wood, I headed for the side of the house. It was doubtful the wooden front structure was original to the home, anyway.

Clenching my bare hand into a fist for a moment, I sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. If I look like I’m swallowing my tongue, do me a favor and shove me away from the wall. You know, if you’re not too busy taking notes.”

“I have a near-photographic memory,” he countered impassively. “I’ll transcribe them later.”

“Smart-ass,” I muttered. Then, giving up on stalling any further, I stretched out my hand hesitantly, Charlie’s excruciating death still firmly in mind, and touched warm brick.

I saw it.

I saw it all.

Every year. Every day. Every moment.

Love. Hate. Hunger. Warmth. Laughter. Tears. Loss. Abandonment.

Blood.

Death.

But no more so than usual in a house that had lived so long. I dropped my hand and pulled my glove back on. “The only thing Felicity Farrell killed was her husband’s sex drive when she threatened to treat his dick like a chicken neck and give it the chop. And after thirteen kids, who could blame the woman?”

“No violence, then?”

“Not the kind you’re talking about. A few fights. Someone’s granny fell down the stairs and broke her neck, but no murders. Although Lily Ann’s dog ate her sister’s rabbit. I guess the rabbit might call that murder.” I swatted at a deerfly buzzing about my head. “So, one down, how many to go?”

“Too many.” Hector grunted and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Sweat. The man was actually human after all. Someone write that down. Oh, wait, Hector had a near-photographic memory. He could simply remind me later. I ducked the fly again and headed back to the car.

“When do we stop for lunch?” I called over my shoulder. “I’m starving. Not that the yogurt wasn’t a filling breakfast-you really know how to keep your psychics happy.”

“I believe I liked it better when you were sullen and silent.” Hector moved past me and got behind the wheel.

“As opposed to?” I drawled, slamming the car door shut after I slid into the passenger seat.

“Sullen and sarcastic.”

• • •

Lunch was a long time coming. We went through two more ancient houses and a feed store and finally ended up at a cave. The houses had come up dry, and the feed store had been host to one murder, though not the massacre legend had painted. And apparently, that was not enough violence to make it a target for Charlie. The cave, Hector promised, was the last one before we ate, and I was holding him to it. No food, no mojo.

“We’re here.”

I wasn’t dozing, not really, but the voice was jarring nonetheless. Too many winding Georgia roads, too much hot sun through the windows. I last remembered a spill of rotten fruit along an orchard we’d passed. Red, gold, and brown, the peaches had rolled free of a wicker basket. As pictures went, it was sad in a way, wistful, but it was beautiful, too.

“Where’s here?” I muttered, rubbing tired eyes. “The hole in the ground?”

“Yes, Carlson Caverns. Sawney Beane’s American summer home.” Hector stared through the windshield, and his mouth twitched minutely, which I’d come to recognize as his version of a scowl. “Tourists. Look at all the tourists.”

It was more than a few. There were dozens of people milling about the gravel parking lot in front of the path that, per the huge sign, led to the cavern.

“What are you, a vacation Grinch?” I yawned. “And who the hell is Sawney Beane?” The name actually sounded vaguely familiar, but I was tired and starving and not in the mood to chase the thought around my weary brain.

He checked his watch, decided the tourists weren’t going to dematerialize to suit him, and turned to address my question. “He was head of a legendary family of cannibals. The Beane clan supposedly lived in a Scottish cave in the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Sawney and his highly incestuous family killed thousands of innocent travelers, dragged their bodies back to their cave, hung them on hooks, and ate them.” His pale eyes considered me. “Did I already say supposedly?”

“Yeah, you did.”

Note to self: avoid Scotland. Avoid it like the fucking plague. The hell with supposedly; better safe than sorry was my rule.

“You’re not telling me this place is the equivalent? Because, Allgood, guess what? I really don’t want to hear that.” I made no move to get out of the car, although I sincerely doubted that Georgian cannibals had once roamed the area. I was simply tired and cranky as hell. Rubbing dry, tired eyes, I grabbed the last folder and opened it. After scanning the two pages, I thought about fighting the impulse to roll my eyes. I didn’t fight it long or hard. “I can’t believe we dragged our asses all the way here for this crap. It’s right up there with the Headless Horseman or, hell, the Great Pumpkin.”

“I never figured you for a Charlie Brown fan, Jackson.”

“Oh, shut up, would ya?” I complained, my drawl thicker with weariness. “Bottom line is you don’t need a psychic to vet this one. It’s pure bullshit. Historical bullshit, maybe, but still bullshit. Not to mention a total waste of my time.” As the entire damn day had been. “I’m beat.” I pulled the lever on the side of the seat and dropped it into the reclining position. “Bring me back a rock. I’ll read it, and then we can finally grab some lunch.”

A large hand reached across me, opened the door, and gave me a firm shove out. I didn’t fall on my ass; the force of the push had been very carefully calculated on Hector’s part in consideration of the fact that I’d just that morning crawled out of a hospital bed. The effort didn’t stop me from giving him a poisonous glare.

“Is that your way of saying ‘or we could walk to the cave’?”

“You are a psychic, aren’t you?” Hector closed his door, checked his watch again, and added, “Let’s go buy a ticket.”