Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

“Well, yeah. In content. They used to be just about people I knew. Like what they were thinking. Sort of a scenario would play out in my head about my parents, maybe. When they were fighting about something-usually me. They were always arguing about what was best for me, and sometimes I would see their fights in my mind and I think my visions were fairly close to the truth. Then when I got to high school the episodes got more intense and were mostly about boys I liked…or maybe girls who were mean to me…” She drew a breath. “They’ve never really made sense. More like dreams that hit me hard. One second I’d be normal, the next I’d wake up on the floor of the gym or hall or playground or science lab. It was more than a little embarrassing. You didn’t know?”

“I remember rumors about them,” Hudson admitted. “I think Evangeline helped spread them.”

“Did she?” Becca’s mouth turned down.

“She’s never been the nicest person around,” Hudson observed.

“She doesn’t want Jessie to reappear.”

“Maybe she thinks she’ll steal Zeke from her.”

Becca smiled faintly at his insight. “She was always thinking that. Anyway, fast-forward to today. I can’t explain what they’re about, but I had my first one recently before I’d heard about the body being found at the maze.”

“And that was of Jessie.”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t had any other visions between high school and now.”

“None. Not one the whole time I was married.” Becca sounded sort of surprised. “I’ve always associated the visions with stress, but I had some really stressful times when I was married and I never had one.”

“So maybe they’re not stress induced.”

“Maybe. Although tonight and the fire…” Her hands were trembling slightly and she flexed her fingers.

“Let’s go into the living room.”

He stayed close behind her but she was stronger than she appeared, he decided, as she made it to the couch with no problem, her dog jumping up beside her and curling into a tight ball, his eyes intense as they glued on Hudson, who took a chair opposite them.

“These visions,” she said softly. “They’re kind of a curse.”

“Maybe it’s your subconscious trying to warn you of something. The way you work out problems.” Hudson shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal,” Becca repeated through a hot throat. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve spent so much time making myself crazy over them. So afraid to make a fool of myself. Be the object of ridicule.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly.

“Easier said than done.”

“What about the vision at the fire? It was about Jessie, too?”

“Not exactly.”

Becca wondered how much to tell him. Sure, Hudson was being nothing but supportive, but she couldn’t trust that he would remain that way if she revealed the extent of her idiosyncracy.

But still, her vision was strange.

“I saw the nursery rhyme,” she admitted slowly. “In a note. Jessie’s nursery rhyme. The one she used to taunt the boys with? I think…I think she may have sent it to Glenn. His name was on it.”

Hudson went completely still. She watched his expression turn inward and felt her heart stop. Maybe he was reviewing his own feelings, deciding whether to keep championing her or dismiss her as a total nutcase. For a moment she’d felt un-burdened, but now she braced herself, certain that was what was coming. Despite what he’d said, she knew his support might be weaker than he believed.

“What nursery rhyme?” he asked.

She rubbed her arms briskly. “Jessie’s taunt. You remember it: ‘What are little boys made of? Frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. That’s what little boys are made of.’”

Hudson closed his eyes a moment, touched his hand to his forehead as if making a monumental decision.

Becca’s heart jolted. “Hudson?” She wanted to take back the words. She’d gone too far. She wanted him to think she was normal, but if he got up and walked out she wouldn’t blame him.

“I’m the one who got the note,” he said slowly, his gaze holding hers.

“No…it said Glenn. I’m…I’m sure…”

For a response he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a white card identical to the one in her vision.

He turned it over so she could read the front.

HUDSON was scrawled across the paper in an uneven hand.

I watch as the fire begins to dim and the crowd starts to disperse. It’s late and I should rest, there is so much to do, but the licking flames and billowing smoke have energized me.

No one has recognized me, though I’ve seen some who are familiar to me.

Rebecca…

Ah, yes…

Did you feel me here? Did you know that I observed you?

But she left, taken away by one of the others.

I followed their trail, caught a glimpse of her sliding into the passenger side of a little blue car…her vehicle, though he drove it.

Now the night closes in around me and I start back to my own vehicle when I sense it, that special scent, the one that propels me. It’s faint, barely discernible over the odors of charred wood, burned plaster, and smoke, but it hangs briefly on the air. Luring me. Making me nauseous.

I close my eyes, concentrate.

Inside I quiver…anxious.

It’s been so long…

But as surely as the tide changes with the moon, the time is near.

My mission is at hand.

Soon…soon…

Mac stood by his car, doused by dull, sprinkling rain, and stared at the rubble that had so recently been a restaurant and bar. Puddles had formed from the water from fire hoses and the ever-falling precipitation. The drama was all but over; the fire no more than foul-smelling steam. Standing water gleaming beneath the parking lot sodium vapor lights as drifting smoke hovered thick in the air.

The place had an almost vacant feel to it, even though the firefighters were still wrapping up their hoses and the trucks stood by, engines thrumming. Any looky-loos had left and Gia Stafford had been driven home by someone, thank God. The only person Mac still recognized was Scott Pascal, who sat on a wet curb and stared through red-rimmed eyes to the black, sodden hulk of Blue Note. Mac, who was rarely known for flights of fancy, had a sudden, sharp vision of a trumpet player squealing out some impossibly high note that ended in an echo of sadness. Blue note, indeed.

Pascal half turned. “Did you talk to Gia?”

He gazed at Pascal’s profile, noting the deep weariness etched in his face. One thing Mac had discovered from his years of interviewing people was that you never knew what they might say in times of deep stress. He’d found it beneficial to keep his mouth shut. Ask a few tight questions, but just wait for it, something Gretchen had yet to learn, if she ever would.

“Accident or arson?” Mac posed.

Pascal went quite still. “Who’s saying arson?”

“Maybe no one. It’s always a question, though, in a case like this.”

“A case like what? They’re not telling me anything.” He shot a vituperative glare at the departing firemen. Belligerence uglied his face.

“Come on, Pascal. You were bleeding money.”

“You went through my financials?” He half rose from the curb.

“More like a guess. Your employees weren’t exactly shy about saying how long they felt the restaurant would hang on.”

He thought about that and sat back down. “Nice,” he said sourly, then lifted an eyebrow. “How much time did they give us?” he asked with a touch of irony.

“A week or two. Maybe a month.”

“You know Blue Ocean is taking off. Everyone said we’d never make it at the beach, but you’d be surprised.”