Double Take

Julia had accepted his words. After all, Wallace was August’s friend, as legitimate as her husband. But she knew August had scoffed at many of those so-called psychic mediums, shaken his head in disgust at their antics, even as he praised their showmanship. What did she believe? Like many people, Julia wanted to believe there were certain special people who could speak to the dead. She believed to her soul that August was one of them, but there were very few like him. She’d seen and met so many of the fakes during her years with August. Even though she’d said nothing, it seemed to her that, according to them, any loved ones who died, no matter the circumstances of their passing, were always blissfully happy in the afterlife, always content and at peace, even reunited with their long-dead pets. But she couldn’t help but wonder if August really was happy in The Bliss, wonder if he didn’t want the person who’d murdered him to pay. Who wouldn’t? She did. She’d asked his friends and colleagues in the psychic medium world if they could discover who had killed him, but evidently none of them was possessed of that special gift. This lack of vision was unfortunate, especially for Julia, since the police had fastened their eyes on her and looked nowhere else, at least as far as she could tell.

She didn’t know if August had been blessed with that particular gift. TV shows had psychics who could picture murderers, even feel them, see how they killed and who they killed, and who could help track them down. And there were even mediums who, in addition to being psychic, could also speak with the dead. Were any of these people for real? She didn’t know.

Who killed you, August, who? And why? That was still the question always in her mind—why?

There was August’s lawyer, Zion Leftwitz, who’d called her after her husband’s death. August’s estate, he’d said on her machine, it was very important, as were her responsibilities to that estate, an estate, she knew now, that wasn’t all that substantial.

Obligations, she thought, always there, at least eighty percent of life.

She really didn’t want to have dinner with Wallace, didn’t want to hear his comforting words, hear yet again that August was at peace. Then she’d inevitably hear about Wallace’s latest triumph, perhaps how he’d contacted the mayor’s long-dead grandfather. She knew all the way to her boot heels he’d seriously dent her euphoria. And it also meant taking a taxi back home. She had to leave this magic place, she had to hurry.

“Excuse me, ma’am. That’s Alcatraz out there, isn’t it?” She turned to see a tall black man, firm-jawed, wearing glasses, a long belted coat, standing close, smiling down at her. She smiled up at him. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m going to visit tomorrow. But tonight—do you know when the next ferry leaves for Sausalito?”

“No, but it’s never long between runs. The schedule is on the side of the building over there, not five minutes from Pier 39—” As she turned slightly to point, he smashed his fist into her jaw. The force of the blow knocked her back against the wooden railing. She saw a bright burst of lights before her eyes, then she saw the flash of something silver in his hand, something sharp—dear God, a knife. Why? But words froze in her throat in a thick veil of terror. All her focus was on that silver knifepoint.

She heard a man shout, then heard, “FBI! Stop now, back away from her, or I’ll shoot!”

The man with the knife froze an instant, then cursed. He hefted her up and threw her over the railing into the bay. She splashed into the icy water and rolled over the mess of black rocks that stabbed her like stiletto blades. She tried to struggle, but knew in a flicker of consciousness that she wasn’t going to escape this, that she was going to fall and fall—was that a seal honking? Was that someone shouting? It didn’t matter because everything was going black as her body settled into the jumbled rocks at the bottom of the bay, the water smoothing over her. Her last thought, really more an echo, was that she wouldn’t ever get to be happy again.

CHAPTER 2

The weight on her chest was rhythmic and hard, yet somehow separate from her body. Then someone’s mouth was against hers, and a huge burst of hot air blasted down her throat, deep, filling her. It felt odd, but then it simply didn’t matter. She drifted away.

A man’s hard-edged voice shouted in her face—”Don’t you let go! Do you hear me? You come back here. Now! I had trouble enough getting you out of the damned bay, not a ladder in sight. Lucky we didn’t both drown, so don’t you dare let go on me!”

She felt a slap, two, on her cheeks, sharp, stinging, then more hard pressing against her chest, and that brought her closer. The pressure came inside her, hard and harder still, and she felt each and every sharp blow all the way to her backbone.

“Come on back now! Dammit, breathe!”

His mouth was on hers again and his breath was hot again, blessed heat that burrowed deep inside her. She was so cold, freezing, but that hot breath was like a bellows pumping through her. Suddenly, she wanted that heat. She sucked it in madly.

The man’s voice, his breath hot on her cheek now, said over and over, “That’s it, that’s right, come on now, you can do it. Don’t give up.”

“More,” she whispered, not knowing if she’d even spoken aloud. He flipped her onto her stomach and began pounding her back with his fists. When water spewed out of her mouth, he quickly pulled her onto her side. She heaved and gasped, so cold she wanted to scream, but he slapped her back hard again with the heel of his hand and more water gushed out, then slowed to a dribble, snaking down her chin.

She wheezed and shuddered and said, her voice hoarse, “The seals aren’t honking anymore.”

The sharp slaps against her back stopped. The man said, “Yeah, they’ve closed down for the day. Hang on now.” He rubbed her back rhythmically, and she coughed again, hoarse and loud, and more water dribbled out of her mouth. Where was all that water coming from?

When he couldn’t get another drop of water out of her, the man pulled her up to a sitting position and forced her head between her knees. She breathed hard, couldn’t seem to stop shuddering.

“Good, that’s it, keep sucking in air.” He yanked off her wet leather jacket and pulled his heavy sports coat around her.

She hiccupped. “My jacket, my poor jacket. I’ve had it since I was a sophomore at Boston College.”

“It’s so tatty it’ll have to survive. What’s a little water? Hey, I came out of the Crab House and saw that guy clip you on the jaw—and I saw the knife. When I yelled at him, he knew time had run out and he threw you over the railing. He knew I couldn’t chase him then, knew I was going right for you, had to get you out of the water. I