Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) (11 page)

“You're sure?”

“I'm positive. I want you on my side.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

I
had a half sister. And a hat.

I still intended to keep her connection to me and my father private, or as private as anything could be in Paumanok Harbor where people had eidetic memories, built-in lie detectors, pride in their ancestry, and eyes to see for themselves. To myself, though, Carinne was family.

Maybe I had a strong sense of kinship and loyalty because of my parents' split. A shrink could explain it better, if I ever went again. The last one cost a lot of time and money, and we both still thought I was crazy.

I knew there was a lot of my mother in me, wanting to rescue needy creatures. Maybe I was a glutton for punishment, like the way I'd adopted Little Red. The Pomeranian was a royal pain in the ass, snippy and snarly and decidedly unconcerned with notions of loyalty, obedience, or housebreaking. But he was mine, and I'd protect him from harm or Deni or going back to the pound, unloved and unwanted.

Just so Carinne. Maybe she wasn't a lost dog that'd been abused and abandoned. Maybe she represented a horrid mistake in my father's past, a humiliating episode in my mother's future, but right now Carinne needed me. Dad was right about the gossip and backbiting and general unpleasantness facing her. Who else amid the close-knit community would stand by her but her sister?

So I put on a Yankees cap over my pink hair and went to meet her train.

The good thing about having death threats, if there was a good thing, was the ease of accomplishing stuff a person on her own could not do without a retinue of big, tough, armed bodyguards. Like having Colin go find a parking spot while Kenneth the precog and Lou walked beside me, ready to nab evil-doers or carry Carinne's luggage. Harris got to stay outside with Little Red in the other car, both of them on the alert for suspicious characters.

Ken wanted to know which train car Ms. O'Dell was on. Or how we'd recognize her when she got off.

“Trust me, we'll know.”

She had a Florida Marlins cap over red hair, but she looked like me, a little taller, a little thinner, but enough that Kenneth let out a gasp.

Lou gave me a dirty look for not warning him, then said, “The shit's going to hit the fan for sure, now.”

That's how you recognize a half sister.

We'd be almost identical, except she had red hair where I had pink. I guess we thought alike, too, because I fingered my Easter-eggy hair and said, “I thought you were blonde. I thought it best if we didn't appear so obviously related.”

Carinne touched her red curls and said, “You're blonde in all the pictures Un— Sam Tate had of you. I thought we should look less like sisters.”

Then we laughed, as she pulled a wig off her head to reveal my usual sandy blonde hair. And we hugged, right in the middle of hurrying passengers towing their luggage. Kenneth and Lou formed a barrier around us. Hell, Lou could have kept people away with one of his glowers.

We embraced awkwardly at first, not knowing if it could be misconstrued or bring insult if we didn't. No etiquette books covered this situation.

Then she started to cry. “I saw your future, when you're my age, thirty-seven.”

Lou frowned harder, if possible. “Ladies, can we take this out to the cars, in private?”

“No,” we both shouted, Carinne through her tears. “I saw you.”

“And it's so horrible?” I felt like crying, too. “Was I dead? Decapitated like the rat?”

Kenneth handed her a tissue so she blew her nose. “What rat?”

“What future?” I demanded. “What's so bad that you saw it and cried?”

“I saw it, that's what. You were wrong, that your talent protected you. It's not what I saw, but that I hoped the future thing wouldn't work around you. It does. For him, too.”

She pointed at Kenneth, who had to be in his late twenties, and said, “When you are thirty-seven like me, you'll be in charge of ten other agents, in an underground office. And you're wearing a wedding ring.”

Kenneth grinned. “I can't wait to tell Colin. We've been looking forward to it being legal. And my own squad, huh? And an office at HQ, besides. That's great.”

I wanted to strangle both of them. “What about me? What did you see?”

She wiped her eyes. “Oh, you're reading a picture book. With your name on the cover. You're reading it to a baby.”

“You know, I always wanted to write a children's book. Maybe after people see my illustrations for the professor's book, they'll pay me to do one.” I felt a nice glow at the idea.

“What about the baby?” Lou wanted to know. “Her grandmother is anxious.”

“I have no idea if it's Willow's baby or not, but she loves it. I can tell from her smile.”

I was more excited about the book. It'd be about Little Red and his sad life until he came to Paumanok Harbor and—

“All this luggage belongs to you?” Lou said with a growl.

Carinne started weeping again.

“Ignore him,” I said. “He's always grouchy.”

“He's scary,” she whispered, close to my ear.

“Yeah, but he'll lay down his life for us. Or maybe he'll lay down my life.”

She went white.

“Just kidding.” I hoped. “For now, he'll keep us safe. And we have two cars, so all your stuff will fit.”

“I didn't know what to bring for northern weather, so I brought most of my clothes.”

She had a nice southern drawl. Not a y'all accent, but softer, slower than New Yorkese. “That's fine,” I told her. “The weather changes every hour at this time of year. But what's in the carry case?” I had a bad feeling about the familiar-looking bag at her feet.

“It's my cat. I couldn't leave her behind, could I?”

Oh, lord, a cat. With that new director at Royce-Rosehill already on the warpath about the parrot, and Matt's dog coming to stay sometimes, and me and Little Red visiting, he'd have a cat fit. Literally.

We'd face that later. First, we had to get Carinne and her bags out of the train station. Kenneth located a redcap, or whatever you called a train porter these days. He got everything onto a rolling cart and asked where we were headed. Lou spoke into a hidden mike to alert Colin and Harris, then led us in the right direction in that vast warren. We tried to cordon Carinne off from families with children, teenagers with earbuds, and young executives in a rush. The baggage cart piled high helped some, and Kenneth and I at either side blocked her view more. We could still hear her mutter “school teacher, dentist, shop clerk, prisoner, janitor. Oh, no, don't keep smoking. Please.” And she started to cry again.

No wonder she was having a breakdown. So I talked to distract her, telling about Deni and Paumanok Harbor and Little Red, who did not like cats any more than he liked dogs. Or strangers. Oh, boy.

Outside, she told Colin he'd have a wedding band to match Kenneth's, but Harris would be in a jungle, chasing rumors of a creature that was supposed to be half man, half jaguar. They were both happy.

We loaded the cars, while Lou grumbled because I'd brought a lot of suitcases too, besides my computer and reference books and art supplies. I didn't know how long I'd be staying, or if I needed fancy clothes if Matt and I went out, after his ex left. Little Red had his carrying case, of course, and another tote bag filled with his food, toys, bowls, leashes, and a new sweater I bought him, for when it got cooler.

Each of the men had a duffel bag, plus computers and electronic gear. They had two large metal boxes, presumably for weapons, and a larger cooler, hopefully for food, because I'd eaten all my traveling snacks days ago. Both cars got crowded. Carinne and I sat in the back seat of the Beemer, Red trembling on my lap because of all the commotion, the cat yowling in its carrier on Carinne's lap because it wanted to get out. Or to get at Little Red.

Kenneth drove; Lou rode shotgun, or light saber. One never knew about him. Colin and Harris followed in a big white Jeep. Lou murmured to them and his headquarters constantly through his walkie-talkie and cell, running license plates on any car that got too close, having the guys behind us check on any drivers who seemed suspicious.

While he was busy, and to get my mind off the seemingly endless Midtown Tunnel—with water pressing down on it—I asked Kenneth to describe his precog ability to Carinne, to help her get a handle on her own.

“Please. I've never spoken to another psychic except, um, Sam Tate. I didn't really believe in such things until he explained my own ESP to me.”

Ken told us that he only saw danger, like my father, but his was immediate, not miles or days away, and not necessarily focused on himself or people he loved. He called it a soldier's sixth sense, a survival instinct, only more so. His sensations of imminent peril weren't ambiguous like Dad's doom-saying, just not pinpoint specific. He didn't get mental signals of which weapon or what assailant, but when he got the feeling, he knew what direction it came from. That's why he and Colin made such good partners. He pointed, Colin aimed.

Ken explained how he'd learned not to yell “Danger, everyone down.” Like shouting “fire” in a movie theater, it just caused panic, with no one listening. The innocent bystanders were more liable to trample each other getting away. Besides, he needed a moment to figure out if the menace were coming from the air, the street, the very ground. His para-intuition encompassed earthquakes, fires, venomous snakes, drunk drivers, runaway autos, and bad guys with evil intentions. So far.

Right now he was relaxed, or as relaxed as anyone could be driving on the Long Island Expressway with four eastbound lanes of cars going eighty and trucks as long as a house. “The trick is to stay calm,” he told Carinne. “And not give people more information than they need.”

She nodded, and I could see her trying to figure out how to apply his advice to her situation. “So I don't have to tell some teenager pumping gas that he'll be dead before he reaches thirty-seven? Just that he should take better care of himself and stay away from drugs?”

“He won't listen. But maybe that'll shut up the clamor in your head.”

I asked about that. Were the voices in English? Sometimes, she said. Were they gibberish? Sometimes, too. With pictures? She saw the people at her age, but nothing afterward. And the sight, how close did she have to be?

“Close enough to see their eyes. I don't need to look into them, just be that near. Like that little boy in the car seat in the SUV beside us. He'll be a Japanese scholar. Maybe Chinese. I can't tell what language he is translating, but a lot of books are on the shelf behind him, all with the same author, him.”

I looked over. The kid kept banging a plastic truck on the back of his father's seat. He'd be lucky to reach seven, much less thirty-seven.

“So you look at someone younger than you and see them at your age, with enough detail for you to guess what they're doing?”

“It's no guess. I'm a hundred percent certain, and don't ask, because I have no idea how.”

“Okay, but where do the voices come in?”

“When there's no future, or a terrible one. I don't want to see the picture. I don't want to tell some young soldier he'll be grievously injured in Afghanistan and spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. So I try to ignore it. That's when the shouting in my head starts, as if the bad news wants to get out, wants to yell at him to be careful, wants me to use what I've been given. I have to try to change his future, try with all my might to get him to watch out for bombs, to shoot himself in the foot before he is blown up. If I don't try, the noise gets worse. If I do try, people want to lock me away. I don't know if I can ever alter a person's future, only see it, then hear the noise in my skull.”

We were all quiet. What do you say to someone carrying such a heavy burden? Little Red moved over to lick her hand. Kenneth offered her another tissue.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

I
had an idea. And a new itch.

Carinne's cat had fleas. Everything in Florida does, she said. She couldn't go to the local pet store for a new batch of flea and tick killer drops, because the store only hired kids to work, for cheap. And the security guards at all the malls had her name and photo on their lists of undesirables. One more incident and she'd be sent to the psych ward.

Maybe we could pass the cat around to the non-talents, I suggested, half in jest, and confuse Ms. Garcia of the CDC. That got vetoed when Lou started itching and cursing that his entire car would have to be fumigated. I worried he'd toss the cat out of it, but I didn't mention that to Carinne, who had enough worries.

Thinking about her difficulties, I wondered why Lou hadn't offered to fix Carinne's problem. I know he could wipe out an esper's talent because he'd threatened the evil hypnotist, the last villain to jeopardize the safety of Paumanok Harbor. I did not know how it worked, or the cost in collateral damage, but I thought Carrine might consider a cure at any price; she was that desperate to reclaim her life. Lou did not suggest any such drastic solution. He got busy finding the nearest pet store on his GPS.

I figured he wanted Carinne to be studied, surveyed, and scrutinized to see if her talent could be used for the good of Royce and Paumanok Harbor before he wiped out part of her mind. I'd warn her later, when we were alone. Lou wouldn't like it, but my sympathies lay with my half sister, not my wholly scary bodyguard. Any messing with her head had to be her choice, not Lou's.

We got the drops on the cat with only a few scratches. Of the car's leather seats. The cat should have shriveled up from the glare Lou sent its way.

We also got more anti-itch creams and slices of pizza and soda. I walked Little Red, Lou vacuumed out the car at the nearby gas station, and Carinne sat on a bench outside the strip mall, cat carrier at her feet. Colin and Kenneth and Harris formed a circle around her, so she didn't have to see any of the other shoppers. She smiled at the guys and I could see them melting, the big, muscled DUE agents. They were on her side. I relaxed a little and told her about my idea.

First, I scrounged through my pocketbook for the small sketch pad and pencil I always carried. I handed them to Carinne. “My idea mightn't work, and someone at Rosehill will have a better plan, but maybe if you draw what you see, instead of having to say it, the clamor in your head would die down.”

Colin agreed. “She's the Visualizer. It's worth a try.”

“But I don't have a drop of your talent, Willow. I couldn't make an accurate picture of what I see, especially not the horrible scenes.”

“That doesn't matter. You only have to make it real and recognizable to you. Use stick figures if you want, just so you get the bad stuff out of your mind without distressing the poor person in trouble, or causing yourself more harm.”

Lou came back and nodded. “It'll be a good way to research, too. We can get names from the license plates, and see what comes of your prognostications. Not that I'm doubting you, just that we should have records.” He looked around, spotted a gym.

“Let's sit on the bench over there. There's bound to be some thirty-something coming out and getting into a car. Any older and it won't work, if I understand your gift right. Any younger and it'll take too long to verify.”

I protested: “For Pete's sake, Lou. Carinne's not a gypsy fortune-teller in a circus tent! Don't ask her to perform, especially if it can upset her. We can experiment with the sketches at Rosehill, where Dr. Harmon can help, or maybe we can get Doc Lassiter to come with his mental soothing skills. Or even Grandma Eve's rescue remedy teas. Just not in public, where people will freak out if she shouts their futures.”

“No, Willow. It's fine. I want to try the drawing thing. I never thought of that. And yes, you should have proof of what happens. Otherwise I'm just a delusional psychotic. Why should you believe me?”

I took another sip of my Diet Coke and fed Little Red the last scrap of pizza crust I'd saved for him. “Because Sam Tate said you had talent. And he wouldn't have sent you to Paumanok Harbor where a lie could be detected before you could learn to spell the village name. And because we've seen weirder magic than yours could ever be. Magic, not insanity.”

No one came out of the gym. Carinne doodled on the pad. “People always think I'm crazy. When I was ten and saw a younger kid who was going to break his arm in two years, I tried to warn him. I went from Carinne O'Dell to crackpot in the dell, to Ding-dong Dell to plain Dingaling. It got worse all through school, until I went away to college. The first year was great. Almost everyone was older than me. The second year, not so much. I tried to keep away from all the incoming freshmen, but most were healthy, so I did okay. I saw a few overdoses, a couple of drunk driving accidents. Not enough to cause me major issues. And I kept my head down, buried in my books, so I didn't have to see their eyes. The headaches started as I got older and so many more people were younger. Then the voices got louder.”

“So why in the world did you decide to become a school guidance counselor?”

She set the pad aside on the bench and knelt to check on the cat, reaching in to stroke it and whisper that Puss'd be out of the carrier soon. “All I'd ever wanted to do was help children. I thought I could do it with my wacky intuitions. I didn't know how bad the headaches and voices could get.”

“You had great intentions. And Dad said you did help a lot of students. That's a good thing.”

Three people walked out of the gym, two women and a man in spandex and jogging suits. They all looked about my age, and they looked right at us before heading for three different cars. Carinne closed her eyes and started reciting, as if she were giving the make and models of the vehicles. “A wife, a bank teller and uh-oh. Him.”

“What about him? What's going to happen to him?”

She scrunched her face up, obviously in pain.

“No!” I yelled, shoving the pad into her hands. “Draw it!”

She started sketching, pressing so hard she broke off the point on the pencil. I tossed her another one. Lou dictated notes into his Blackberry while she concentrated on the scribbled picture taking shape.

We all looked at what she'd drawn. All three people, recognizable by their hair and the man's mustache. But the guy was in bed with the bank teller, and the housewife had a gun in her hand.

“He's dead.”

Colin whistled. Harris handed all three license plate numbers to Kenneth, who called them in somewhere. As the information came through, Lou wrote names and addresses and birthdays on the sketch, then added today's date and his own initials.

Carinne asked why.

“Maybe we can change the future after all. If we find them, and figure out the date you saw, maybe we can head the wife off, or the girlfriend. Or take the gun away. Anything that changes the components.”

Carinne looked at him as if he'd handed her the moon. “You really think we can save his life?”

“Not by warning him to keep his zipper closed. But hell, we can try to get him transferred to another state.”

“He'll still be a sleazy philanderer,” I said. “He'll still cheat on his wife.” I tried not to look at Carinne when I said it, thinking of my father. Her father.

Lou didn't notice. “Yeah, but he might live to tomcat past his thirty-seventh birthday. I'm not condoning cheating, but don't forget the bank teller isn't pure as snow either. She had to know he's married. And the wife could have gone to a lawyer instead of a gun dealer. No one's without fault here, but maybe we can keep it from turning tragic. Carinne, did you see the wife in jail when she's thirty-seven?”

“No, just at home, making beds.”

“So maybe we do stop it. Or maybe she's out on bail. But now we have a yardstick for what we can try to do, what you can do. Just think what good we can put your gift to if this works.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “You can't drag Carinne around like a counting pig or something, telling futures for you to change. Maybe she doesn't want to be a celebrity seer. And think how much publicity you'll stir up for Paumanok Harbor or DUE.”

Colin laughed. “You think we'd give Carinne's name to anyone? Or let the police or Feebies work these cases? On what? Suspicion of a crime taking place two years in the future or something? Give us a little credit, Willow. We've kept DUE and Paumanok Harbor secret for over two hundred years.”

True. “But you'll give her migraines, or worse.”

Lou stooped down to look at Carinne, on the bench. “Are any voices shouting at you now?”

Carinne took the sketch back from Lou and stared at it. As bad as it was, the drawing still made her wince. “No, I have a slight headache, that's all. Maybe Willow's idea of drawing what I see will be enough. And, Willow, I'd be looking at the futures anyway. What's the difference if I send the information where it can do some good? Besides, we don't even know if the future can be changed. I mean, if it's not like this”—she tapped the drawing—“why did I see it?”

Now I was getting a headache. But my idea worked. She wasn't screaming or carrying on. I clapped my hands. Little Red bit my ankle. “Let's not worry about the ‘whys' now. Or what we can do about drug ODs and wars when you see them, or those kids you want to help. But it's a start that you're not raving or in agony after what you just predicted. The drawing worked.”

She studied the pencil in her hand as if it were some magical device. Then she studied the three men and me. “Maybe I'm better because you've all been so supportive, surrounding me with good feelings, instead of the usual fear and horror at my rantings. You won't be around me all the time.”

“But the pencil can be. That's the joy of something so simple. Heck, we can hang one on a ribbon around your neck and sew pockets on all your clothes for a pad. Give it a chance, Carinne. Maybe it'll help.”

Lou shrugged. “It can't hurt. And we can try to change the pictures. What's your birthday, kiddo? Maybe you're looking at people when they're exactly your age, like thirty-seven and three months and two days. Maybe even down to the minute you were born. That will make our job a lot easier.”

He wrote down her birthday and the hospital where she was born, so he could check the time of day.

Harris brought him a plastic bag to keep the drawing safe.

We got back on the road with an hour to go and a lot to think about.

Little Red belched.

“If that dog pukes in my car, you're walking home.”

Sure, Lou had Carinne now. He didn't need me.