Theresa Weir - Bad Karma

“Nice.” He nodded then checked his watch. “I have an appointment in forty-five minutes.”

“Then I guess you’d better be on your way,” she said. When he was on the ladder, she would grab his ankle and knock him off balance. He would fall. She would get away. But he didn’t move toward the ladder. He moved toward her.

I can overpower him , she tried to tell herself.

He pulled something from the pocket of his jacket. A syringe.

He snapped off the cap and moved closer.

She fought him, but he was too strong. The needle plunged into her arm. While she still had strength, she swung and kicked. But soon the room tilted. Warmth seeped into her limbs, and she slumped to the ground.

She felt his hands stroking her legs, her thighs, moving higher. She wanted to push him away, but she couldn’t lift her arms.

He unzipped his pants while she tried to remove herself, tried to fly away.

Fly away, fly away.

She braced herself for the pain of his forced penetration.

Waiting, waiting.

He hit her. Hard, against the side of the face, the blow bringing her around. And then he was shoving himself away from her as if she had some disease, as if she were some sickening, rotten thing.

Open your eyes. You have to open your eyes.

Somehow she managed to open her eyes a crack, enough to see Campbell standing over her, zipping up his pants. He must not have been able to perform.

“Sinclair was right,” he said. “You are a bitch.”

Inside room six of The Palms, the air conditioner had conked out. It had to be ninety degrees, the heat intensifying the smell of ancient body odor. Daniel was searching the space again, looking for any clues he might have missed the first time through.

He dumped the wastebasket on the bed, mentally cataloging the items. A couple of smashed paper cups, a straw, the magazine she’d asked to borrow that first day.

The used rubber.

He cringed at the memory of that night, but knew he had to stay focused.

The magazine was full of holes where pictures or articles had been removed.

Why?

He held the wastebasket to the edge of the bed and scooped the trash inside, the magazine hitting the bottom with a metallic thud.

On the wall was a dime-store landscape, the frame warped, colors faded. He lifted it from the wall, disgusted to find that it covered a peephole. He ripped the sheets from the bed then pulled off the stained mattress. Lying on the box spring was a yellowed piece of stationery with The Palms in faded green print across the top. Glued to the paper were pictures cut from the magazine.

Pictures of barns. It looked as though she’d cut out every barn image she could find, gluing them down, overlapping them.

Why the hell had she cut out pictures of barns? To convince any remaining skeptics of her validity? Or was there more to it than that?

He rubbed the back of his neck. He was probably the biggest sucker of all. He’d accused Jo of being scammed, but he was the one who in the end had refused to believe that Cleo had walked out on them. One mind-blowing night and he was suddenly one of her followers.

He stepped outside and discovered that the baking heat and humidity felt better than the staleness of the motel room. He was approaching his car when his cell phone rang and he answered it.

“Daniel Sinclair?”

He backtracked to the sidewalk and building, seeking out a couple of feet of shade. “Speaking.”

“It’s Adrian Tyler.”

Daniel slumped against the wall, his eyes closed, head back. Thank God. “You’ve heard from Cleo.” A statement, not a question.

“No.”

Daniel straightened and opened his eyes.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Tyler said.

“No news.”

“Maybe I’d better come down there.” Tyler sounded pissed, sounded as if he’d spent the past several hours stewing. “You hillbillies are probably sitting on your asses, scratching your armpits and chewing a wad of tobacco while the trail gets cold.”

The man was as charming as his sister. “Calm down,” Daniel said. On one hand, he was irritated by Tyler ’s insults, on the other, he understood the guy’s frustration.

“I want to know everything,” Tyler said again. “Where was she staying? Someplace that wasn’t safe? I’ll bet you put her in some dump, didn’t you? Some crack house.” He paused then groaned. “She was walking on the edge as it was.” Tyler ’s tone became more pleading than angry. “Don’t you know how fragile she is? Couldn’t you see that? Or didn’t you give a damn?” His voice wavered and broke.

“What do you mean, your sister is fragile?” Daniel asked.

“She has problems. I don’t mean she’s crazy. Nothing like that. I’ll bet she pretty much told you she was a fraud, am I right?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t have to tell me. I knew it before she got here. I heard about that deal in California, about how she stepped in and took credit for finding that little girl.”

“That deal in California,” Tyler said. “You wanna know about that deal in California? Cleo didn’t want anybody to know about her involvement. The cops were happy to take credit, but then the press stepped in and sensationalized the whole thing. She sees things, Sinclair. She’s been lying to me about it, but I’m her brother and I can see through her, no matter how good the act.”

“If she’s psychic, why pretend she isn’t? How does that make sense?”

“It’s something to do with an accident she was in. It’s personal, and I can’t tell you any more. I’ve told you too much already. Cleo’s a private person. I just want you to find her.”

“I’m not even sure she’s missing.”

“Something’s happened,” Tyler said with conviction. “She knows how I worry, and she never goes anywhere without giving me a telephone number where she can be reached. I know her. And I know this isn’t like her. Not like her at all.”

Daniel didn’t know what to think. Maybe the whole damn family was nuts. But he couldn’t deny that he’d had an uncomfortable feeling about this from the beginning.

With the cell phone to his ear, Daniel went back into the motel room and picked up the paper Cleo had left behind. “I’m in her room right now,” Daniel said. “I found a collage she made, a bunch of pictures cut from a magazine. What’s that all about?”

At first the man was silent. Then he began to speak-a little reluctantly, Daniel thought.

“Her therapist used to have her do stuff like that.” Tyler ’s voice sounded sad. Tired. “Whenever she was having a problem handling something, she’d cut pictures out of magazines.”

“What about orange? Why doesn’t she like the color orange?”

Another silence, as if Tyler was wondering how much he should tell a stranger about his sister. “It has something to do with the car wreck and her boyfriend’s death. Listen, man. Even though I’m her brother, Cleo never spilled her guts to me. I can’t fill in the blanks for you. You just need to get off your butt and do something.”

There was more to know about Cleo. A lot more, but Daniel didn’t think he was going to get anything else out of the brother, at least not right now.

He stared at the collage in his hand. He thought back to the day of the séance, or whatever the hell it was. She’d spewed that stuff about a road and a barn. He hadn’t believed her…until he’d gone into the bathroom, until he’d seen the naked fear in her face. In that encapsulated moment, he’d believed her. In that moment, he would have believed anything she said. But then she’d gotten mad. She’d pushed him. And he’d come to his senses. Or had he? Had he really?