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  Whether influenced by the moon, the time of month, or some other hidden force, we began to notice a definite pattern in our psychic cycles. Whereas we might go three weeks without a particularly noticeable psychic experience, in the span of a few days we'd have literally dozens. It became natural for us to spend a lot of time together during those days. It was also the time we had the most extraordinary sex.

  I did not want to think about that, though. I closed my eyes against the image, willing myself to concentrate on the facts. Even accepting the idea that Maggie was more psychic than your average person, why would she suddenly become clairvoyant? Was that possible? And was that really what was happening? The truth was, I didn't know all that much about extrasensory perception beyond my own experiences. If I was going to understand what was happening to Maggie, I'd need to learn more about ESP in general.

  I was almost through with dinner when I decided what to do. While my laptop booted up, I cleared the dishes, gave both cats a kitty treat and then bit the bullet and called Maggie. When she didn't answer her home phone, I tried the office number.

  "Dr. Carradine's office, can I help you?"

  The voice threw me. Young with a slightly Southern lilt. Maggie must have hired a secretary. But wasn't it kind of late for her to be working?

  "Hi. Is Maggie in?"

  "Uh, just a sec. She's upstairs, I think." The woman sounded young and perky, and a ridiculous stab of jealousy knifed through me. A minute later, Maggie's voice came on the line.

  "Who's the teenybopper?" I asked. I couldn't help it.

  Maggie chuckled. "That's Buddy, my new assistant. She's just a college kid, but she's a godsend. I'm finally computerizing all my files. What's up? You haven't changed your mind?"

  I didn't tell her how tempting that sounded. "Just doing a little preliminary homework. What I need are the names and addresses of the group members."

  "Cass, you can't question them. They have to think you're a client, part of the group. If they see you beforehand, it won't work."

  "Give me a little credit here. No one's going to see me. I just want to know a bit about these people before we actually meet."

  She sighed. "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me. Hang on, I'll get my files."

  After I copied the pertinent information, I told her my plan to search the Internet for sites that might help explain what Maggie was experiencing.

  "You're going to join a chat group?"

  "Well, it's worth a try. And I'm also going to talk to Martha. I know you don't want the police involved, but you've got to trust me on this one too. I won't give her all the names or specifics, so you don't have to worry about confidentiality. I just want to get her perspective ..." Before I could go on, Maggie's phone started beeping.

  "Damn," she said over the noise.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Oh, nothing. It's this new phone system. Buddy hasn't quite got the hang of it yet. She must be trying to transfer another call. I've been trying to reach Stella Cane all evening. It could be her." I let her go, thinking that I'd like to talk to Stella Cane myself.

  Instead, I folded myself onto the floor and sat in front my coffee table. I knew it would be more ergonomically correct to go into my study, but I preferred to stay with the cats near the warmth of the fireplace. While Panic swatted a half-chewed toy mouse around the living room and Gammon rolled onto her back so that I could rub her impressive belly, I began scanning chat groups. I was amazed at the range of topics. I was tempted to join a few, just for laughs. Raunchy Poets, Beer Lovers, Cowgirls Looking for Studs on Steeds, Believers in Hale-Bopp's Second Coming — the list was endless. I selected a search engine and typed in Psychics. A new list appeared, almost as intriguing as the first. There were subjects ranging from Near-Death Experiences to Angel Experiences, Psychokinesis to Telekinesis, Out-of-Body Experiences to Friends of Aliens. There were regional groups, age-oriented groups, you name it. I finally opted for PSI-Chat North West and registered to join.

  There were currently seven people registered but no one was actually chatting. I decided the fastest way to get what I wanted was to leave a message on their bulletin board and hope that someone would get back to me.

  "Help!" I wrote. "Novice psychic needs to know more. Especially interested in dreams that seem clairvoyant. Can you enlighten me? Is it possible to dream something that happens to someone else before it actually happens? Call me Just Curious."

  After a brief hesitation, I left my e-mail address and waited. I don't know what I expected, but I was disappointed when, an hour later, I still hadn't received a reply. Apparently all the psychics were sleeping. I decided to join them and hauled myself off to bed, the cats following faithfully behind me.

  Chapter Three

  Panic had taken to attacking anything that moved beneath the blankets, so when I inadvertently scratched a thigh the next morning, she pounced. Gammon, her portly, much better-mannered sister, let out a huge yawn. Panic had landed close enough to my bladder to propel me out of bed. This, of course, led them both to believe it was time to go outside.

  Going outside was the highlight of every morning, rain or shine. There were moles to catch, robins to chase, and untold numbers of mysteries to sniff. I opened the sliding glass door a crack and got the coffeepot going.

  Living on the lake had become second nature to me. I no longer thought of it as an adventure, though it often was. I loved the rugged landscape surrounding me. I had a creek running right under my house and a forest surrounding me on three sides. The only way I could get to any of it was by boat across Rainbow Lake.

  The lake itself was a huge tangle of waterways that meandered for miles along the tree-covered shoreline. My human neighbors were few and far between, just the way I liked it. There was no shortage, however, of deer, bear and other four-legged creatures, and I'd learned to respect them even as they had learned to tolerate me.

  I took my coffee out on the deck, enjoying the crisp morning air, and watched Panic stalk a robin. It was late April, and the hydrangea bushes along the creek were loaded with blue buds, almost ready to explode in their annual gaudy display of color. Gammon was already sprawled on a deck chair, sunning her huge belly.

  "You think I'm being foolish?" I asked Gammon. She had large, intelligent eyes the color of gooseberries and she regarded me serenely. "Of course you do. But what am I supposed to do? Let her go through this alone? She could be in danger."

  Gammon blinked and began washing her nether regions. Sighing, I went inside to call Martha Harper.

  "Girlfriend! I was just thinking about you."

  "Don't get started on that psychic stuff, Martha."

  "What?"

  I explained about Maggie's dreams and the subsequent deaths, skipping over as many details as I could. When I told her I was going to join the therapy group, Martha cut me off.

  "You're saying Maggie's seeing these murders before they happen? Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm not sure. But she is. She's really freaked, Martha, and she can't go to the police. She's afraid they'll want to talk to her clients, which of course they would. That would jeopardize her client confidentiality. So I guess I'm it."

  "That's dicey, Cass. She could be withholding evidence."

  "Since when is a dream evidence?"

  She sighed. "You've got a point." We let the silence stretch between us. "Still," she finally said, "I don't know. How do you feel about it?"

  "About the psychic part?"

  "About the Maggie part. Working with her."

  "Oh, that."

  "Oh, boy."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You know damn well what that means. You're weakening already."

  "No way. Absolutely no way, Martha. I've been burned once by her. I'm not about to let it happen again. This is strictly business. Really."

  "Okay. I'm glad to hear it. I don't think I could stand to see you hurt again, that's all. I think she blew it big-time and I told her so last time I saw her." />
  "You saw her? When was this? Why didn't you tell me?"

  "It was no big deal, Cass. We just ran into each other. She looked pretty good, I thought. She's lost weight."

  "Yeah, well. I hadn't noticed."

  "Uh-huh. Anyway, I made it real clear to her that you didn't need any more grief on her account. Of course, she was typical Maggie. You know — understanding, full of empathy. She tried to say that the last thing in the world she'd wanted to do was hurt you, and that she felt terrible about it. That's the thing with Maggie; you start out being mad at her and end up feeling like a jerk because she's so damned honest."

  "She wasn't all that honest with me. You think it was honest to start sleeping with her ex-lover?"

  "You don't know they slept together. You assume that."

  "Damn right I do."

  Martha let out a chuckle. "Just keep that anger, babe, and you'll be okay. You find yourself starting to slip, call me."

  Finally, I gave in and laughed. "Martha, I know what you're up to and it isn't working."

  "What?" Her voice was full of innocence.

  "Your whole goal in life is to get me back together with Maggie Carradine. You think I suddenly buy this new reverse psychology?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." But her laughter gave her away. "I'll tell you one thing, though. I don't like the sound of this whole mess and that's the truth. I wish you'd at least give me some names or the details of these deaths. I could ask a few questions, see what I can find out."

  "I promised her, Martha. No cops. If I gave you the names of the clients, just so you could run a background check for me, you'd have to promise not to do anything else with the information."

  Now she really laughed. "You're a piece of work, you know that? You want to use my resources but not let me do my job. If I didn't love you, I'd be offended."

  "But you do love me," I said, laughing too. "Have you got a pen?"

  Afterwards, we allowed ourselves a few minutes of small talk and she invited me to have dinner with Tina and her. I gladly accepted and promised to bring Tina's favorite Cabernet.

  After breakfast, I checked my e-mail. To my surprise, there were three messages. The first one wasn't very helpful.

  "Dear Just Curious. Hope you dream of me tonight. If it turns out to be true, you'll be the first to know. Love, Studly."

  I thought about referring him to the Cowgirls in Search of Studs on Steeds, then erased the message. Now I knew why people didn't give out their e-mail addresses, I thought. The second one was a little more useful.

  "Hi, J.C. I'm P.J. (short for Psychic Junkie). If what you're describing is true, you're pretty special. But don't freak out. You're not the only clairvoyant in the universe. In fact, WE ARE EVERYWHERE. Does this only happen when you dream? If so, my guess is that you've got too much noise in your head during the day. You've got to clear the waves, darlin'. Learn to listen. If you're interested, I can help. E-mail me."

  I copied the e-mail address and saved the message, then read the third.

  "Just Curious? I don't think so. If you're having dreams that portend the future, you're way beyond curious. But I'm definitely curious. How long has this been going on? Do you know it's a premonition when you wake up, or only after it comes true? Are the dreams exactly like what happens, or just a close approximation? How do you feel about the dreams? Are the things you dream about emotionally charged events? Traumatic in nature? Or are they everyday run-of-the-mill stuff? Tell me more and maybe we can 'connect.' Call me Claire."

  Cute, I thought. As in Claire Voyant. But I saved the message and e-mail address. Of the two good responses, I felt Claire's was the most promising. The questions she asked seemed to indicate she knew a lot about the subject. I decided to concentrate on her.

  "Dear Claire," I wrote. "Thanks for getting back. I hope you're not too disappointed to discover that I'm writing on behalf of a friend. To answer your questions, this just started a few weeks ago. There have been two dreams that have 'come true.' The dreams are very intense and violent. My friend has no idea that they're premonitions until the events have actually occurred. She says the dreams are almost identical to the actual occurrence. She has never been clairvoyant before, but she's always been a little psychic. Why is this happening now?"

  I sent the message, then debated calling Maggie to fill her in. After five minutes of deliberation, I punched in her number. This time, she answered her home phone.

  "Oh, hi. How'd the chat group go? Did you learn anything useful?"

  "Well, sort of. No one was actually chatting when I tried but I left a message on the bulletin board and a couple of people responded. Three, actually." I told her about the message from Studly and she laughed. "I just want to find out more about what you're experiencing, Mag. Did you have any more, uh, dreams? And did you get hold of Stella Cane?"

  "No to both questions. As far as the dreams go, it's getting so that I'm almost afraid to fall asleep. But after talking to you yesterday, I feel a lot better. At least I'm not in this completely alone. I know I already thanked you, but..."

  "It's okay, Maggie. I wouldn't want you to be going through this alone, either. I mean, I wouldn't want anyone to have to."

  There was an awkward silence and I was relieved when her phone beeped, indicating a call on another line. I hung up hastily, cursing myself. Keep it professional, I chastised myself. But even as I said it, I felt the little nugget of anger I'd been harboring begin to unfold.

  Chapter Four

  Stella Cane lived in Eugene, only a couple of hours from Cedar Hills. She hadn't been back to therapy since the day after her boyfriend's murder, and neither Maggie nor I had any luck reaching her at the number listed in her file. Had the police arrested her? Had she fled the country? Or maybe she just wasn't answering her calls. I didn't have any contacts in the Eugene Police Department, and I didn't want to involve Martha any more than I already had, so I decided to pay Stella Cane a visit myself.

  One of the first things I'd learned about disguises was to keep them simple. My old mentor, Jake Parcell, had taught me that, saying that most folks tended to overdo it, making themselves stand out like sore thumbs. "If you're blond," he explained, "why on earth would you switch to black hair? It don't match your eyes or skin coloring one whit. If you've got skinny arms and legs, don't try to make your tummy fat. It doesn't work. Go with what you got and just rearrange it enough to throw people off. Create an image and step into it."

  And so I had. Though I rarely found the opportunity to use it, I kept a simple disguise handy for situations like this.

  My natural hair is blond and short, making me appear younger than my thirty-three years. By donning a strawberry-blond, softly curled wig, I instantly aged about ten years. The wig was an expensive one and looked natural on me, though I didn't look a thing like myself in it.

  I don't wear glasses, so the inexpensive pair I'd picked up at the drugstore further changed my appearance — not radically, but enough to alter the image. The round lenses de-emphasized my cheekbones, giving me a matronly look. I never wear makeup, so a touch of pink lipstick was enough to give the impression of a made-up face. A pair of earrings I wouldn't be caught dead in and a god-awful lime-green flowered jacket that was actually in style, completed the image. I was rounder, softer and older. I felt ridiculous, but the hideous jacket successfully concealed the thirty-eight tucked inside my shoulder holster, and the first time I'd worn the disguise, I'd walked right by Martha Harper and she hadn't recognized me.

  I added the finishing touches using the rearview mirror in my black Jeep Cherokee, then headed toward Eugene. While I drove the two-lane road that wound its way through the evergreens, I thought about the best way to approach Stella Cane, if indeed I could find her. I had half a dozen cards printed up with various names and occupations. I could be Mary the Reporter, Dee Dee the Social Worker or Wanda the Realtor, none of which promised to do much good in this case. I'd have to go with Jane the Private Investigator, I decid
ed. Not very original, but probably the best way to get her to talk, given the circumstances.

  Compared to Cedar Hills, Eugene is a regular metropolis. Boasting a population of over a hundred thousand, it has a fine university, theaters, restaurants and the all-important Wal-Mart and Costco. The people are friendly, the streets are clean, and the air is a delight to breathe. Like most of Oregon, it rains like hell most of the year. But that Saturday it seemed the entire population was out and about enjoying the welcome April sunshine.

  The apartment Stella Cane had shared with her boyfriend was outside of town. Using my Thomas Brothers map, I located Elm Street and followed a succession of increasingly dilapidated houses until I reached the shabby apartment complex bearing the address. Looking at the dismal surroundings, I wondered how Stella Cane had been able to afford Maggie's services. Therapy wasn't cheap. Unless, of course, Maggie was taking pro bono cases.

  Rock music poured from an open window in the unit next to theirs, and a couple upstairs was arguing loudly. Number seven, however, was disappointingly dark and quiet. I knocked on the door anyway, then pushed my way through a thick hedge to the living-room window. I pressed my nose to the glass, cupping my hands to shade my eyes, and peered into the empty room. The place had been gutted. Not a stick of furniture littered the stained and threadbare carpet.

  "You looking to rent?"

  I wheeled around. Two beady eyes stared back at me from under a Forty-niners' cap. The man was pushing eighty, but his bony body had the wiry resilience of someone who'd worked long, hard hours all his life.

  "I'm looking for Stella Cane. You know her?"

  "The blond gal with the tow-headed kid used to live here? Sure. Poor thing had to move out, though. Her good-for-nothin' boyfriend got hisself killed. Police been all over the place asking questions and whatnot. Who knows? Maybe she done it. " His small eyes twinkled with merriment. "Why you want her? She done something else?"