Page 23 of The Psychic

“Think I should approach him some other way?” asked Cooper.

His gut was tight and ice had developed in his veins as he’d listened to the tale of Atticus Symons.

The preacher likely had Mary Jo as a member of his flock, and maybe thought he had some influence on the baby inside Mary Jo’s womb.

All of it made Cooper want to put his fist through a wall.

He could feel the strong grip he’d held on his anxiety and rage loosening.

“Oh, yeah. Tell him you’re looking to be saved.

I don’t know if he’ll want cha anyway. He likes women …

of a certain age, which I’m long past.” She smiled thinly.

“But tell him you need to be saved. Force him to find a reason not to save you. He had a helluva time with Sammy, who really wanted to believe. We had to leave there and go to a different church. Sammy was baptized long ago, but he never cared until he was near the pearly gates. Then, he cared.”

She verbally related the route to Symons’s church and grounds.

From her description, it sounded like the place had a back building with barracks, which didn’t bode well.

But if Mary Jo was there, at least Cooper would know where to find her.

That was step one. Step two was extracting her and making sure both she and the baby were safe and healthy.

Ten minutes later he was on the road.

Sloan had barely gotten back to his desk when his cell rang and he saw on the small screen that the caller was Abel Townsend. “Sheriff?” he answered.

“You’d better get over here,” was the abrupt response.

Immediately, Sloan straightened. “Why? What’s up?”

“Meet me at the station. We’ll go from there together.”

Sloan asked, “Where are you?”

Townsend wasn’t usually so mysterious, but then he’d been tougher to talk to ever since Sloan had taken the temp job at River Glen P.D.

“Tell ya all about it when you get to the station.” And Townsend hung up.

Ronnie paused in the hallway outside Martin Calgheny’s office. His door was ajar, so she rapped lightly, then stuck her head inside. The attorney was at his desk and glanced up, looking over the rims of his glasses.

“So, Monday for the Bentons?” she asked.

“Tuesday afternoon. Collecting heirs never works on a time line.”

“Okay.” She made a mental note. “Did you talk to Daria Armenton?”

Martin gave her an odd look. “I called her, but she said it was all taken care of.”

“Her part of the Rollberson inheritance?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Huh.” The way Angel had talked, it had seemed like a battle royale for Daria’s small share, but when Daria had spoken to Ronnie, it sounded like she might have other plans. “Okay, thanks.”

She stopped at her office for her purse and cell phone, then grabbed her raincoat from the employee break room. On her way to the elevators, she gave a finger wave to Dawn, who was currently on the phone at her desk, and left the office.

Ronnie was on her way to meet Brandy at a sandwich shop near Glen Gen.

Once in her Escape, Ronnie drove toward the hospital. The gray clouds occasionally offered shafts of bright sunlight before closing together again. It almost seemed purposeful, the little bit of brightness peeking through, only to be swallowed up again.

She found parking on the street and walked to the sandwich shop, its windows surrounded by red and green tinsel, an outdoor menu offering a “holiday” menu.

A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door to the smells of baking bread and strong coffee and the buzz of conversation and clatter of flatware.

Several tables were occupied, but no Brandy.

She was about to sit down and wait when her phone buzzed.

Brandy.

Full of apologies for being late. “We’re short-staffed,” she said a little breathlessly. “Do you mind having lunch in the cafeteria? I’m sorry. Or, we could forget lunch … but I …”

“Or, I could bring lunch,” Ronnie suggested. “Sandwiches. I’m already here.”

“Actually, that would be great.” Brandy sounded relieved.

“What would you like?”

Brandy knew the menu and asked for a tuna sandwich, so Ronnie stepped up to the counter and ordered from a blond girl in braids and a red Santa hat.

Fifteen minutes later she headed up the hospital elevator with a white bag containing two tuna salad sandwiches. As soon as Brandy saw her, she asked her to wait in the alcove for a few minutes. “Just got some relief. I’ll be ready in a couple minutes and we’ll go downstairs to the cafeteria.”

“Sure.” Ronnie seated herself in one of the tan alcove chairs.

Almost immediately her skin prickled. She sat up straight and held her breath.

Concentrated. The sounds of the hospital—the rattle of carts and whisper of footsteps and buzz of soft conversation—faded.

She bit her lip. Listened more closely. Waited.

She closed her eyes.

Seconds passed.

Nothing.

Not a damned thing.

A minute passed and then another.

No vision appeared.

She slowly opened her eyes, expelled her breath and relaxed into the chair again.

Running her hands through her hair, she glanced around the alcove, her gaze snagging on one of the pieces of alcove artwork, a watercolor portrait done in deep greens, browns and grays hanging on the west wall.

She could see the side of a white house in the corner, just a sliver of a building, like it was a mile away.

The main focus was of the line of trees behind it.

A woods. Douglas firs and pines … maybe a Ponderosa pine by its red bark, which were generally seen in central or eastern Oregon, not the Willamette Valley, though there were a few this side of the Cascade mountains.

“I’m ready,” called Brandy, waving to her from the nurses’ station.

Ronnie left the picture behind and walked with Brandy to the elevator where they took a car down to the first basement level and stepped into the long corridor leading to the cafeteria.

As they stepped through the open doors, the smells of simmering tomato sauce and roasting meat greeted them, floating on a rumble of conversation.

Hospital workers in scrubs and name tags joined visitors in separate lines where hot meals or sandwiches or pastries were displayed.

At one of the vending machines, Brandy bought them each a bottle of water.

She tried to pay for her sandwich, but Ronnie held up a hand.

“My treat,” she said and Brandy didn’t argue.

They each sat in one of the molded green chairs surrounding a four-top table which, if it had been one floor up, would have overlooked the back parking lot.

On this level, the view was of diagonal parallel lines in four-inch green stripes running down the one wall, a mood lightener to combat the room’s windowless starkness.

Ronnie knew that down the hall and around the corner, on the opposite end of Basement One, the lab and pathology department were housed. Also, the morgue.

Thankfully, this area was made for the living.

“It’s a bunker down here, but it suits my mood,” said Brandy. She cracked her bottle of water, took a swallow and asked, “What were you doing with Shana?”

“She collapsed at my feet. I guess I felt kind of responsible.”

“Sorry. It just seemed weird, along with everything else. Old home week, and not in a good way.”

Ronnie had unwrapped her sandwich, wondering what Brandy meant, not sure she wanted to poke around and find out.

Taking a bite, she realized Brandy wasn’t eating.

She was staring down at her sandwich with a frown.

Ronnie swallowed and added, “Of course, this was after Shana served me with divorce papers.”

“You’re getting a divorce? Oh, I’m sorry.” Brandy’s hazel eyes shadowed a bit. “I didn’t know you were married, or maybe I did. I don’t know. I’ve never wanted to make that commitment.” She shook her head. “So Shana’s a process server?”

“She might have just done it for Galen. Doesn’t matter. I signed the papers and we’re on our way.”

“Marriage …” Brandy made a face.

“Divorce,” Ronnie countered. “You said you wanted to talk about something?”

“Divorce,” she repeated. “Specifically Mel’s. You … know about her and Hugh?”

Ronnie slowly shook her head, but yes, maybe. She knew Mel had gotten married. She paid attention to her friends, or had. It had mattered once. But she wouldn’t have come up with Mel’s husband’s name.

Brandy suddenly looked up, turning her eyes intensely on Ronnie and said, “I wish we’d stayed friends.”

From some deep well she hadn’t known existed, Ronnie felt a sudden surge of emotion. It hadn’t been her choice that their friendship had ended. Brandy and Melissa had eased themselves away from her: weird Veronica Quick.

I lost my mother and you abandoned me, too.

Immediately she quelled that ridiculous thought. They’d been kids. She’d freaked them out. She managed to shrug and say lightly, “Grade school friendships.”

“I know. But we did everything together and then it was just over. And then you were so shut down in high school. Mel and I were still friends, but …”

Shut down? She didn’t remember that, but she’d spent a lot of time hiding oddness from everyone.

“You know about Mel and Clint, right?” Brandy had unwrapped her sandwich, but stopped and looked up at Ronnie from the tops of her eyes.

“Your brother? No.”

“It was because of Clint that Mel and Hugh broke up.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, best friends and all that. The three of them together. I’m not trying to make excuses … those things happen. It’s just that Clint’s a mess, and I don’t think he’d do anything wrong. I mean he’s an idiot. I love him. He’s my brother. But he’s an idiot.”

Ronnie’s mind flew back to that day at The Pond. Mel had been crushing on Clint even then. “Wow,” was all she said now.

“I know.”