He had the thought about that dream being something more real when he first woke up from it. The idea of it had nagged at him all morning. Before meeting with Eli, he tried convincing himself it was only a lucid dream, maybe an extraordinarily vivid one, but still just a dream. He knew why the idea of it being more than that bothered him so much. For five years he’d been trying to learn how to leave his body so he could find his mom and his old partner, Joe DiGrazia. More than anything he wanted to tell them both how sorry he was about what Charlie Winters had done to them. And now that he finally had a chance to do that, he was so wrapped up in a case that he blew it. The opportunity he’d been wanting for so long was gone.
He started laughing as he thought about how much this bothered him. Goddamit, he told himself, you used to be a cop. What the hell’s happened to you? Believing in this bullshit?
The thing was he knew it wasn’t bullshit. How could it be with all those years Charlie Winters had invaded his dreams? Even if he could come up with an explanation for that, how could he ignore the time he shot out of his body and floated above it, watching as Winters tortured him by his broken fingers, twisting harder with that nutcracker until those fingers ripped off, then his body, now free, turning on Winters with that knife…
Shannon stood silently for several minutes. Slowly the muscles along his jaw relaxed. He closed his eyes and repeated silently to himself for several minutes that if he could leave his body once he’d be able to leave it again, and that he wouldn’t allow any harm to come to Susan or himself.
His cell phone rang, interrupting him. He felt calmer though, his affirmations working better than cigarettes or shots of Black Bush ever did. He answered the phone and it was Mark Daniels letting him know he had gotten his message the other night. “I owe you one for letting me be there when you go through that condo,” Daniels said, his voice cheery. “What time do you want to do it?”
“How’s nine this morning?”
“Works for me.”
“I’ll pick you up at the station at eight-thirty, we’ll go over the crime scene photos, then -”
“Wait a minute! What’s this shit about crime scene photos?”
“You were going to check that for me, right?”
“Yeah, well, I’m still waiting on word from my captain.”
“You should probably get his word soon,” Shannon said. “At least if you want to be there when I go through that condo.”
“What the fuck you pulling on me?”
“Nothing, except I expect this to be more of a two-way street with us. It’s not going to be just me doing you favors.”
“You just doing me favors?” Daniels sputtered out, nearly choking on his words. “How about me checking on that girl at the True Light cult for you?”
“You did talk to a girl there,” Shannon said. “If you’d actually seen her instead of only talking over an intercom we’d know whether that girl was Melissa Cousins. As it is, neither of us has a clue who you talked to.” There was dead silence on the other end, then Shannon heard some ragged breathing as if Daniels were trying hard to compose himself. Shannon asked, “Do you want me to stop by at eight-thirty or not?”
“Yes, stop by,” Daniels said before hanging up.
Shannon checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes before he needed to stop by Devens’ office. He found a bench facing the Flatirons, sat down and tried to sort out his thoughts. The downtown mall was beginning to show more life as tourists and locals geared up for the weekend. More rollerbladers decked out in spandex skated by, as did more bicyclists, and more couples whose rubbernecking clearly marked them as being from out of town. A guy wearing a suit and tie and a rubber Dick Cheney mask strolled by with a Capuchin monkey on his shoulder. The monkey was also dressed up in a little suit and tie. Shannon guessed that the monkey was supposed to be George W. Bush. He had to admit it was clever, but not too smart. Even at that hour he could tell it was going to be another hot day. It wasn’t going to be too comfortable for either of them dressed up like that. He felt sorry for the monkey.
Devens peered curiously at Shannon. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“An accident.”
“An accident? Not due to our investigation?”
“No, a different matter.” Shannon paused while he rubbed his jaw and looked over at one of the Navajo storytellers in Devens’ collection. He had a weird impression that the mother and three children in the clay piece of pottery were also giving him their rapt attention. “Maybe you can help me out with something? I’d like to find whatever I can about a property here in Boulder. I’m pretty sure it was purchased within the last two years.”
“I think I can do that for you.”
Shannon gave him True Light’s address, and Devens screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember something about it. “That’s by Baseline Reservoir, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Devens nodded. “I remember it. Some religious group built a kind of fortress out there, right? I’ll check the records and let you know what I find.” He went back to his desk, got out a set of keys and tossed them to Shannon. “I danced my ass off in court to get you access to that condo,” Devens said. “Did a few Gene Kelly moves, absolutely dazzled them with my soft shoe. My basic argument being that my client-through you as a proxy-has the basic right to access his property in order to defend it. The DA tried to argue that his rights were superseded by the police’s need to be able to conduct a thorough investigation. Fortunately I had found an appellate court decision from 1986 which supported my argument. You should’ve seen the look on the DA and the police representative’s face when the judge announced his decision.” He leaned against his desk and cracked his neck using both hands in a chiropractic-type adjustment. “You were going to tell me about Wichita,” he said.
“There’s a remote chance that Linda Gibson’s parents are involved with the murders,” Shannon said. “The Wichita police are investigating it.”
Devens raised his brows at Shannon. “No way you leave it at that. I want details, my friend.”
“Sorry,” Shannon said. “This falls under what we talked about before about me not providing any dirt on the two victims. If the Gibsons were involved, we’ll know soon.”
Devens looked like he wanted to argue, but he resisted and instead told Shannon that he could respect that. He offered his hand, met the firmness of Shannon’s own grip. “Keep me informed,” Devens said somewhat curtly. “If you hit any more roadblocks that I can help with, let me know.”
Shannon nodded and told him he would. When he got back onto Pearl Street, he took out Les Hasherford’s phone number and tried to decide whether it was too early to call him. Finally, he decided somewhat glibly that if Hasherford were truly a psychic then he’d be expecting the call. He dialed the number. After eight rings Hasherford picked up. The psychic’s breathing was labored and he spoke in a soft, almost melodic voice that at times sounded more like he was humming than talking. He agreed to meet at one and gave Shannon his address in Nederland, a small mountain town about fifteen miles west of Boulder. Before hanging up, Hasherford warned Shannon that he had never tried anything like this before, but that Shannon should bring articles of clothing from both of the deceased and he would see what he could do.
Shannon checked the time, saw he was going to be late meeting Daniels, and headed back to the Boulderado Hotel to pick up his car.
Chapter 12
Shannon was five minutes late arriving at the Boulder Police Station and Daniels kept him waiting another twenty. When Daniels did appear, he carried a thick folder under his arm. His face remained expressionless and his manner frigid as he gave Shannon a dead-eyed stare.