To Touch a Thief (An Everly Gray Novella) (6 page)

Jayne pushed her fingertips into her temples. “Anything you want me to do if this plan doesn’t work?”

“Wanna take my place?”

“This is serious, Everly.” Jayne reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle of ibuprophen.
 

Mitch and Parker joined us—Mitch glancing warily at me. “Are they serving alcohol at this thing?”
 

“Absolutely,” Parker answered. “Champagne and hors d’oeuvres before the séance begins. If you need something stronger—” his gaze darted between me and Jayne, then came to rest on Mitch— “let me know.”
 

We turned in unison as voices sounded outside the door. Parker reached for Jayne’s hand, pried the bottle of ibuprophen from her grasp, and dropped it in his pocket. “Time to greet our guests.”

When everyone was seated and had been plied with the champagne and hors d’oeuvres, Parker gave a brief introduction and then turned the séance over to me.
 

When had the room become so warm? I rested my hands on the table, fingers interlaced. With all the skepticism about séances, I didn’t want anyone to wonder what my hands might be doing under the table.
 

I asked Mitch to dim the lights, and the room relaxed in the peaceful, cozy glow.

“Good evening. As we progress through the séance, I’ll stand behind each of you in turn and place my hand on your shoulder. My touch indicates that I’m working with your friend or relative who has passed beyond the veil.”
 

I stood and circled the room. “As we begin, allow your eyes to close. You’ll want to keep them closed throughout the séance, because it will help you to focus inward on your memories, rather than on my movements as I select participants.”
 

“Deep, even breathing will help to welcome the spirits surrounding us. Bring your attention to your inhalations and exhalations, the air moving through your lungs. When you’re comfortable, hold an image in your mind of the loved one you’d like to contact this evening.”

An agitated feminine voice cut into the quiet. “We’ll all get a chance won’t we? You won’t leave anyone out?”
 

“Everyone will have an opportunity.” I paced my answer to re-set a calm atmosphere. “Some spirits are easier to communicate with than others, and we must respect their limitations.”
 

Mitch grunted softly in the background, and I had to swallow a laugh. He was obviously focused on my limitations, not those of the dearly departed.
 

I selected my first participant, an elderly gentleman who radiated deep loneliness, and rested my hand on his shoulder. Images flowed onto my internal monitor. A big, empty house, a classic photograph of an elegant bride done in black and white, and a family portrait that included a daughter. The next image flashed in front of me, a warning clearly attached. The daughter was gazing at one of North Carolina’s more ruthless politicians—a besotted smile on her lips.

“Is it your wife you’d like to contact?” I asked.
 

He shivered under my fingertips, and the faint scent of mothballs tickled my nose. “Yes, miss.”

“She is at peace, is waiting patiently for you to join her. She’s concerned, though, about your relationship with your daughter.” His shoulder muscles tensed, and a wave of discomfort tugged on me. I shrugged it off. There was no turning back now. “Your wife says that you must not let her sway your convictions. That you must remain strong in your beliefs and true to your heart.”
 

A tear trickled down his cheek.

“Thank you, miss.” He brushed at his face with trembling fingers. “She’s a difficult one, our Callie.”
 

I patted his shoulder and moved to the other side of the table to select the next participant.

Two long hours and one headache later, there were only a few people left for me to read. Unlike the other participants who had followed my instructions and kept their eyes closed, Parker’s gaze had followed Jayne as she wandered around the room, keeping watch over the participants. When I placed my hand on his shoulder, he growled, low in his throat.
 

I bent to his ear. “You, thinking about Jayne, is clouding the whole room with hormonal vibes. Focus on memories of your grandfather. Now.”
 

His eyelids fluttered closed.
 

I spoke up, hoping a pointed question would clear his mind of the X-rated images. “What was your grandfather’s name, Parker?”
 

“Thomas Steele.”
 

Cloudy pictures of an elderly gentleman with Parker’s gray eyes replaced the semi-nude images of Jayne. I breathed easier. There had been way too much Jayne in my life lately.
 

It was sometime during the reading of Thomas Steele that my neck started to prickle.
 

I tried to scrub the sensation away, but it worked its way under my skin until I couldn’t ignore it.
 

EIGHT

Everly Gray

I finished the reading on
Thomas and bent to Parker’s ear again. “Something’s wrong,” I whispered and moved away, slowly circling the table, stalling for time.
 

A trickle of sweat had slithered down my spine, and uncomfortable vibrations were tickling my skin.

Jayne stepped in front of me. “Pick someone.” There was a definite bite in her voice.

“Can’t. Something’s wrong.” I angled my chin toward the right side of the table, the seat at the end.

All of the participants were totally relaxed, eyes closed—some might even have fallen asleep. Steele had, after all, provided a never-ending bottle of excellent champagne.
 

But still, the guy at the end—Solomon Tarik, if I remembered the introductions correctly—didn’t look right. He wasn’t sitting in the chair so much as the chair was supporting him. Completely supporting him.

I turned to move in his direction, and Jayne grabbed my sleeve. She nodded toward the woman sitting to the left of Tarik and whispered in my ear. “Mrs. Pockett hasn’t had a turn. Do her now.”
 

Pulling free of Jayne’s grasp, I crooked my finger at Mitch.
 

He rose from his chair, a liquid movement that spoke of his time in war zones. Reaching us in three steps, he cradled my face and held my ear to his lips. “What’s up, Sunshine?”

I took his hand and headed for Tarik. “Not sure, but if we have a panic situation, not only will it potentially destroy whatever data Jayne is collecting, but it could provide a diversion for the thief. And we don’t know if Solomon Tarik has been set up as a cover for…whatever.”

Tarik looked limp, but sort of normal. A knot froze in my stomach. I’d never live it down if this turned out to be a false alarm, or worse, if he were truly ill and we didn’t call for help in time to save him.
 

“I have to trust my intuition.” The words sounded flimsy.
 

Backbone, Everly. Now’s the time to grow one.

“I’m on board with that plan, Sunshine. And my gut is in agreement with your intuition.”

Mitch’s support helped to build my confidence, vertebrae by vertebrae. “Fortunately, Tarik is sitting next to Mrs. Pockett, so I can check his pulse while I’m working with her.”
 

Mitch nodded, then angled his jaw toward Jayne. She was frantically motioning him away from the table toward a far corner of the room. Her obvious panic shot my nerve endings into full alert. Something was definitely going down.
 

I motioned Mitch toward Jayne, then turned my attention to Tarik. I braced my left hand on the back of the chair, the textured fabric roughly reassuring against my palm, and touched his shoulder with the tip of my right index finger.
 

Nothing. Nada.

He’s not a bomb ready to detonate, Everly. Touch the poor man.

I made a light fist, released it and placed all four of my fingers on his shoulder.
 

Nothing.

No images whatsoever. At least he hadn’t been rigged to explode.

I suppressed a shudder and focused on the point of contact between us, allowing the rest of the room to fade into the background. A burned, nutty scent coated the back of my throat. I swallowed several times, clearing the offensive taste, then searched the ethers for an image. Any image.
 

Nothing.

I filled the room with a monologue, softly spoken prattle about how the energy around us had turned vibrant and welcoming for the next spirit who chose to visit, but the background of my mind was running in high gear.
 

Had my ESP fingers gone on the fritz? That hadn’t happened since the first time I tried to work with law enforcement, and
new job
stress had panicked me so badly it deadened the ESP in my fingers. I drew my attention inward, did a few seconds of yogic breathing, and cleared my mind of everything but Solomon Tarik.

Finally, I rested my hand on his shoulder. No response. An icy chill filled the spaces in my chest and spread into my throat. I moved my fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse. Barely there, but palpable. Okay, then. Not dead, but probably in need of medical attention. Some of the tension eased from my shoulders—not dead was a good thing.

A glance across the room confirmed that Mitch and Parker were having an intense discussion, but Jayne was gone.
 

In spite of my reluctance to leave Tarik, I knew I had to continue the séance. I sidestepped to reach Mrs. Pockett, curled my hand over her shoulder, and opened to the images playing across my mind.
 

Fortunately, Mrs. Julia Pockett was an easy read, and a sigh of relief escaped before I could stop it. It was a huge plus that I’d be able to surreptitiously work on Tarik while chatting with Julia.
 

“Is it a cat you’d like to contact, Mrs. Pockett?” Every image I was picking up from Julia centered on a big, orange tabby.

“Oh, no, dear.” She cooed, sweetly. “I lost my dear husband, John Pockett. He was an avid supporter of Forever Feline, and I need him to talk to Max The Cat for me.”

I swallowed a grin. “Would Max the Cat be a large orange tabby?”

She clapped her hands. “Oh, my! Yes dear. About two weeks after I’d laid my John to rest, Max started nibbling on my house plants.”

While Julia Pockett described her prized African Violets in great detail, I turned back to Tarik. Maybe if I touched his hand, skin-to-skin, for a long enough time, an image would pop up to explain what happened to him.

My fingers brushed his hand.
 

An immediate and fierce wave of nausea rocked my body. I jerked my hand away and fought the tremors with every bit of strength I had.
 

Mrs. Pockett paused to take a breath, and I hurried to end the session. “John says that Max is grieving.”
 

“Oh, the poor dear.” Mrs. Pockett sighed with elaborate precision.
 

“He believes if you give Max a plant of his very own, something your veterinarian recommends, and if you allow him to sleep with you at night, he’ll stop nibbling on your violets.”
 

“That’s so like Mr. Pockett,” Julia said, touching the corner of her eye with a tissue. “He always knew exactly what Max needed.” She reached up and grasped my hand. “Thank you, dear. This means so much to me and to Max.”

I gave her hand a reassuring pat and then turned to grab Parker. “We need to end this now. Mrs. Pockett was the last participant, except for Solomon Tarik, and he’s not going to wake up.”
 

Parker nodded, assessing the situation within seconds. “Let’s clear the room. I’ll speak to the participants individually and then escort them to the door. If done smoothly, they’ll believe it’s a planned ending to the evening.”
 

His gaze latched on to me. “You found a pulse?”

“Yes. He’s alive, but not…here.”

Jayne came up behind Parker. “The tarot readers and palmists are closing their booths, but I need to get back to the adopt-a-thon crisis.”
 

Parker nodded, his attention on Tarik. “Let’s try not to contaminate the scene any more than we already have. It could become a legal nightmare and a dammed nasty mess.”
 

I nodded agreement then returned to the head of the table. With a few softly spoken comments, I roused everyone who had fallen asleep, thanked them for attending, and turned the floor over to Parker.

Mitch waited for me a few feet behind Tarik’s chair.
 

I slipped my hand into his, asking for reassurance. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with him, but I’m not getting any images when I touch him. Comatose, maybe?”

Jayne’s hand flew to her lips. “Should I call nine-one-one?” she whispered from behind her fingers.

 
“Not yet,” I mouthed. “He may have had one too many glasses of champagne, and we don’t want to call the paramedics for that.”