Tuesday's Child (Book 1 of Psychic Visions, a paranormal romantic suspense)

  Tuesday's Child

  Book #1of Psychic Visions

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2010 Dale Mayer

  Discover other titles by Dale Mayer at Amazon.com

  Tuesday's Child

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Amazon Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Preview of Hide'n Go Seek

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Tuesday's Child wouldn't have been possible without the support of my friends and family. Many hands helped with proofreading, editing, and beta reading to make this book come together. Special thanks to Amy Atwell and Pat Thomas. I had a vision, but it took many people to make that vision real. I thank you all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  2:35 am, March 15th

  Samantha Blair struggled against phantom restraints. No, not again.

  This wasn't her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn't her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own. Then the pain started. Still, she couldn't move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul while dying nerves screamed.

  The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching all thought away. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued.

  Sam screamed. The terror was hers, but the cracked, broken voice was not.

  Confusion reigned as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on?

  Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror.

  She'd become a visitor in someone else's nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she'd linked to this poor woman whose life dripped away from multiple gashes.

  Another psychic vision.

  The knife slashed down, impaling the woman's abdomen, splitting her wide from ribcage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam's mind. She cringed.

  The other woman slipped into unconsciousness. Sam wasn't offered the same gift. Now, the pain was Sam's alone. The stab wounds and broken bones became Sam's to experience even though they weren't hers.

  The woman's head cocked to one side, her cheek resting on the blood-soaked bedding. From the new vantage point, Sam's horrified gaze locked on a bloody knife held high by a man dressed in black from the top of his head down. Only his eyes showed, glowing with feverish delight. She shuddered. Please, dear God, let it end soon.

  The attacker's fury died suddenly. A fine tremor shook his arm as fatigue set in. "Shit." He removed his glove and scratched beneath the fabric.

  In the waning moonlight, from the corner of her eye, Sam caught the metallic glint of a ring on his hand. It mattered. She knew it did. She struggled to imprint the image before the opportunity was lost. Her eyes drifted closed. In the darkness of her mind, the wait was endless.

  Sam's soul wept. Oh, God, she hated this. Why? Why was she here? She couldn't help the woman. She couldn't even help herself.

  She welcomed the next blow – so light only a minor flinch undulated through the dreadfully damaged woman. Her tortured spirit stirred deep within the rolling waves of blackness, struggling for freedom. With one last surge of energy, her eyes opened, and locked onto the white rings of the mask staring back. In ever-slowing heartbeats, her circle of vision narrowed until the two soulless orbs blended into one small band before it blinked out altogether. The silence, when it came, was absolute.

  Gratefully, Sam relaxed into death.

  Twenty minutes later, she bolted upright in her own bed. Survival instincts screamed at her to run. White agony dropped her in place.

  "Ohh," she cried out. Fearing more pain, she slid her hands over her belly. Her fingers slipped along the raw edges of a deep slash. Searing pain made her gasp and twist away. Hot tears poured. Warm, sticky liquid coated her fingers. "Oh. God. Oh God, oh God," she chanted.

  Staring in confusion around her, fear, panic, and finally, recognition seeped into her dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains shining through the slap-dash coat of whitewash on the ceiling and the banged up suitcases, open on the floor. An empty room – an empty life. A remnant of a foster-care childhood.

  She was home.

  Memories swamped her, flooding her senses with yet more hurt. Sam broke down. Like an animal, she tried to curl into a tiny ball only to scream again as pain jackknifed through her. Torn edges of muscle tissue and flesh rubbed against each other, and broken ribs creaked with her slightest movement. Blood slipped over her torn breasts to soak the sheets below.

  The smell. Wet wool fought with the unique and unforgettable smell of fresh blood.

  Sam caught her breath and froze, her face hot, tight with agony. "Shit, shit, and shit!" She swore under her breath like a mantra.

  Tremors wracked her tiny frame, keeping the pain alive as she morphed through realities. Transition time. What a joke. That always brought images of new age mumbo jumbo to mind. Nothing light and airy could describe this. Each blow leveled at the victim had manifested in her own body. This was hard-core healing – time when bones knitted, sliced ligaments and muscle tissue grew back together, and time for skin to stitch itself closed.

  Sam understood her injuries had something to do with her imperfect control, paired with her inability to accept her gifts. Apparently, if she could surmount the latter the first would diminish. She didn't quite understand how or why. Or what to do about it. Her body somehow always healed, the physical and mental scars remained. She was a mess.

  The physical process usually took anywhere from ten to twenty minutes – depending on the injuries. The mental confusion, disconnectedness, sense of isolation lasted much longer. She paid a high price for moving too soon. Shuddering, Sam reached for the frayed edges of her control. It wouldn't be much longer. She hoped.

  Nothing could stop the hot tears leaking from her closed eyelids.

  This session had been bad. Apart from the broken ribs, there were so many stab wounds. She'd never experienced one so physically damaging. Nervously, she wondered at the extent of her blood loss. If she didn't learn how to disconnect, these visions could be the end of her – literally.

  Just like that poor woman.

  Sam hated that these episodes were
changing, growing, developing. So powerful and so ugly, they made her sick to her soul.

  Several minutes later, Sam raised her head to survey the bed. The pain was manageable, although she wouldn't be able to move her limbs yet. Blood had soaked the top of the many Thrift Store blankets piled high on the bed. Her hollowed belly had become a vessel for the cooling puddle of blood. Shit. The stuff was everywhere.

  The metallic taste clung to her lips and teeth. She rolled the disgusting spit around the inside of her mouth, waiting. She wanted to run away – from the memories, the visions, her life. But knowing that pain simmered beneath the surface, waiting to rip her apart, stopped her. Weary, ageless patience added to the bleakness in her heart.

  Ten more minutes passed. Now, she should be good to go. Lifting her head, she spat the bloody gob onto the waiting wad of tissue and noted the time.

  Transition had taken fifteen minutes this morning.

  She was improving.

  Oh God. Sam broke into sobs again. When would this end? Other psychics found things or heard things. Many of them saw events before they happened. She saw violence – not only saw, but experienced it too.

  Occasional shudders wracked her frame from the coldness that seemed destined to live in her veins. The odd straggling sniffle escaped. She couldn't remember when she'd last been warm. Dropping the top blood-soaked blanket to the floor, Sam tugged the motley collection of covers tighter around her skinny frame. Warmth was a comfort that belonged to others.

  She wasn't so lucky. She walked with one foot on the dark side – whether she liked it or not. And that was the problem. She'd been running for a long time. Then she'd landed at this cabin and had been hiding ever since. That was no answer either.

  Her resolve firmed. Enough was enough. It was time to gain control. Time to do something. This monster had to be stopped. Now.

  Christ, she was tired of waking up dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  10:23 am, 16th May

  The police station, a huge stonework building, towered above Sam, blending into the gray skies above. Or maybe she just felt small. Insignificant. She couldn't imagine choosing to spend time in this depressing place. It only needed gargoyles hanging from the dormers to complete the picture of doom.

  The entire idea of what these people did defeated her. She understood the necessity, yet given her insider knowledge, this whole human viciousness thing was too much. She wouldn't be here now except another woman had been murdered.

  Given her past interactions with the police, even that wouldn't have been enough to make her sign up for more. The last cop she'd dealt with had been one bad-assed bastard.

  No. The ring had brought her here.

  This morning's killer had worn a similar ring to the one Sam had seen several months ago in another vision. She'd caught only a brief glimpse of it then, with the memory surviving transition to burn an indelible mark on her heart. Even the mask and gloves had looked similar. The biggest nail in this guy's coffin had been the energy. Like DNA, energy was unique, a personalized signature so to speak. Both killers had the same energy, the same variations in wavelengths and ripples. Even the same type of vibration. But that was hardly police evidence.

  Knowing that some asshole had killed again, filled her heart with sorrow and slowed her steps. Several fat raindrops splattered her face – the joys of living along coastal Oregon.

  The weather didn't bother her; the crowds and noise did. And the smell. Exhaust, sweat, and perfumes mixed to become something only a city dweller could love. No, the outlying community of Parksville suited her perfectly. The trip into Portland was only twenty minutes on a good day.

  Strangers with umbrellas shouldered past her. Would any of them believe her if she told them about the murders she'd witnessed, experienced? She'd faced distrust and skepticism with every foster family. As a precocious six-year-old, she'd told her foster mother's coworker to look after her son better. She'd been punished at the time. But when the boy had drowned in his backyard pool, Sam had really suffered. She'd been dumped back into the system and the label 'odd' had been added to her file. Her gift scared people.

  Today, she had no choice. She had to come here. She couldn't stand by and let this guy kill again. Still, it was a long shot to ask the police to believe her when she couldn't supply a time frame, a name, or even the location of victim or killer. She just didn't know.

  She squared her shoulders. Hitched up her faded jeans. No more. Disbelief or not, she had to do something. She ran up the last few steps.

  The interior of the station felt no less imposing. Twenty-foot ceilings lined with dark wood created a doomsday atmosphere. Great. She lined up and waited. When her turn arrived, she stepped to the counter.

  The officer glanced at her. "Can I help you, miss?"

  Wiping her damp palms on the front of her jeans, she took a deep breath and muttered, "Yes." She paused, eyeing him carefully. How could she tell the good cops from the bad ones?

  The older-looking officer, his expression encouraging and steadfast, helped calm her nerves. Except her ability to judge people had never been good. Sam hesitated a moment longer before the words blurted out on their own accord. "I need to talk to someone about a murder."

  He raised his eyebrows.

  "Two murders." Even she recognized the apology in her voice.

  His eyes widened.

  Okay, she sounded like she had one screw loose. Still there wasn't any delicate way to approach this. She dropped her gaze to her tattered sneakers, almost hidden beneath her overly long pants.

  "What murders, miss?" His voice, so kind and gentle, contrasted with the sharpness of his gaze.

  Shifting, she glanced around. She didn't want to talk about this out in the open. The line of people started several feet behind her. Still... She leaned closer. "Please, I need to speak with someone in private."

  She twisted the ribbing of her forest green sweater around her fingers – a response to the intensity of his gaze. Catching herself, she stilled, as if locked in space and time. Not so her stomach, which roiled in defiance. This had to happen now, or she'd never be able to force herself back again.

  When he nodded, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "Go take a seat. I'll contact someone."

  Sam spun away and stumbled into the next person in the line behind her. Flushing with embarrassment, she apologized and retreated to a chair against the far wall. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face as she tried to calm her breathing. She'd made it this far. The rest...well...she could only hope it would be just as easy.

  It wasn't.

  "Okay. Let's go over this one more time." The no-nonsense officer sat across from her in the small office. His crew cut had just enough silver at the tips to make him distinguished-looking, accenting what she suspected would be a black and white attitude.

  He scratched on the paper pad for a moment and frowned. He tossed his pen and opened a drawer to search for another one. "Two women have been murdered? You just don't know who?" He glanced from his notes to her, in inquiry.

  She shook her head. "No, I don't."

  "Right," he continued, staring at her. "You don't know by whom? You say one man killed both women, but you don't know that for sure? And you don't know where these women could be. Is that correct?"

  Sam nodded again. Her fingers clenched together on her lap.

  "Therefore these women, if they existed and if they were murdered, could have lived anywhere in the world – right?" He quirked an eyebrow at her.

  "Right, but..."

  "Just answer the question. Could these women and their supposed killer be, for example, in England?"

  Her shoulders sagged. Why couldn't anything be easy? "Theoretically, yes. But I'm not––"

  "I have plenty enough dead women right here in Portland to go after. Why would I waste time working on a 'possible two more' that could have happened anywhere? Not only that. You're saying that one woman was strangled and th
en stabbed and the other one was just stabbed. That's not normal. Killers tend to stick to the same method for all their kills." His annoyance pinned her in place. "Prove that a crime has happened."