“Face it, marriage is not in the cards for women like us, Aunt Phyllis.”
“Perhaps not, but that does not mean one cannot enjoy life and men. Think of yourself as a honeybee flitting from flower to flower.”
Chloe tried to envision Jack Winters as a delicate blossom in a field of daisies. And failed.
“Somehow I don’t think that imagery applies to Mr. Winters,” she said. “There really is a kind of freedom in celibacy, you know.”
“Is that so, dear?” Phyllis paused, her cup halfway to her lips. “I never noticed.”
PHYLLIS CALLED HER on her cell phone an hour later.
“I got in touch with Drake. The dear man remembers me, bless his heart. He says he’ll be happy to let you view his lamp. He suggests tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s great,” Chloe said. “Thanks so much. I could get to Vegas in the morning if that would be more convenient for him.”
“Drake is in show business, dear. He doesn’t do mornings.”
15
SHE TOOK HECTOR FOR HIS CUSTOMARY WALK EARLY THE NEXT morning. It was still dark, and it was raining, a classic Seattle mist. She wore her trench coat and a hat pulled down low over her eyes. Umbrellas were for tourists.
Hector had established his territory early on after moving in with her and Rose. Daily he patrolled the perimeter, which consisted of a few blocks of Pioneer Square, marking trees and the corners of various buildings. Along the route they greeted the men and women who emerged from the shelters, doorways, alleys and cribs under the viaduct where they had spent the night.
Some of the street people had gotten into the habit of stopping to chat with Hector. They knew he made no judgments. In addition, he served as a conduit through which they could communicate with Chloe. She considered them her Irregular Clients.
The one she thought of as Mountain Man because of his scraggly beard leaned down to pat Hector’s side.
“Hey, there, Big Guy,” he mumbled. “What’s with the funny collar and that bandage? You get hurt?”
“Hector says to tell you that he got shot trying to protect me,” Chloe said.
“Shot, huh? Bummer. Been there, done that. You gonna be okay, Big Guy?”
“He’ll be fine,” Chloe said. “He wants to know how you’re doing?”
“Doin’ okay,” Mountain Man said to Hector. “Had another bad dream last night, though. Can’t seem to shake it. Keep seein’ it in my head, y’know?”
“Hector wants to know if you want him to help you forget the dream,” Chloe said.
“I’d appreciate that,” Mountain Man said. He continued to pat Hector.
Chloe opened her senses and put her hand on Hector’s back close to where Mountain Man was petting him. She readied herself for the inevitable psychic shock and let her fingers brush against Mountain Man’s weathered hand.
A shivering jolt of fear and pain lanced through her. Although she could not actually see another person’s dream images, her dream reader’s intuition interpreted the energy residue in a very visual and visceral way. Mountain Man’s dreamscape was a terrible canvas painted in darkness, blood and body parts. The sounds of explosives, guns and helicopters roared silently in the background. The nightmare was familiar. It was not the first time she had brushed up against it.
She set her teeth and went to work identifying the disturbed currents of dreamlight. Swiftly she pulsed counterpoint psi to dampen the seething patterns. Mountain Man’s wavelengths would never be normal, but at least she could provide some relief from the night terrors that haunted his days.
Mountain Man straightened after a while. “Feels better. Thanks, Hector. You two have a good day now.”
“We will,” Chloe said. “By the way, how’s the cough this morning?” Mountain Man responded with a harsh, rasping hack. Then he thumped his chest. “Better.”
“Did you go to the clinic?”
“Not yet.”
“Please, go. Hector thinks you should.”
“Yeah?” Mountain Man looked down at Hector. “Okay, maybe I’ll do that.”
“Today,” Chloe said gently. “Hector wants you to promise to go today.”
“I will,” Mountain Man vowed to Hector. “Got my word on it, Big Guy.”
He turned and shambled off across the intersection, heading for his day job, panhandling near the Pike Place Market. There was a clinic in the Market designed for people like Mountain Man. She could only hope that he would follow through on his promise this time.
SHE WAS IN THE BEDROOM, throwing a few things into a small carry-on bag on the off chance that she might have to spend the night in Vegas, when Rose shouted from the landing on the second floor.
“Chloe? Fletcher Monroe is here. He’d like to talk to you.”
Just what she did not need. She tossed the long-sleeved silk nightgown onto the neatly folded silk travel sheet already in the suitcase and went to the open doorway. Hector, who had been napping on the floor, lumbered to his feet and followed her. Fletcher was already on the stairs that led up to her third-floor apartment. Hector glared at him, turned around and went back into the living room.
Fletcher was dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt with a T-shirt underneath, running shoes and no tie. He had the vaguely rumpled, decidedly un-crisp look that was de rigueur in the academic world. Heaven forbid a Pacific Northwest instructor be mistaken for a denizen of the corporate establishment.
It was annoying that Fletcher still felt he had a right to come up here and invade her private space, Chloe thought. Sure, she’d invited him in for tea and after-dinner drinks a few times and they’d done some good-natured petting on the sofa. But he was a client now.
This was one of the problems that came up when you mixed business and pleasure. Boyfriends who metamorphosed into clients and vice versa never got the rules straight. She was forced to set boundaries, and then guys got mad.
She was about to tell Fletcher that she would meet him downstairs when she noticed the wobbly light of his psi prints. He was giving her his easy, charming smile, acting as if all was normal. But the unsteady, shifting hues of dreamlight told her he was still badly unnerved. He’d had a close brush with death and he knew it. He would be awhile getting over the scare.
“Hey, there, Miss Psychic Private Eye,” he said. “I hear you saved my life the other night.”
She hated it when he called her Miss Psychic Private Eye. It was his unsubtle way of mocking what he considered her delusional talent.