Above all, however, this man is rank with feelings ofinadequacy. It’s a sour, curdled-milk scent. In addition I find more bitternesswith the fear of failure, hard-pressed ambition, and an unfulfilled yearning toprovide. These emotions permeate the atmosphere around him.
“Does the cigar bother you?” the fellow suddenly asks. “Wouldyou prefer that I leave?”
I smile, startled by his polished American accent. No doubt myfamily would sound Welsh to him. Most Stonehengians do not talk like Americansat all and have roots outside the United States. Hoping to strike it rich inthe mines of Colorado, they come from Canada, England, Scotland, and France.Predominantly European, but there are some from as far away as China andRussia. Regarding architecture, language and sensibilities, our city is anauthentic international metropolis nestled within the Rocky Mountains.
Who are you then, mystery man?
The object of my speculation turns away and continues puffingon his cigar. Caught up in thought, I forget that I am holding my scarf. Itslips from my fingers and drops to the floor. Drat. Cordelia’s certainto scold if I lose the hellacious rag. I return the lucky pebbles to mypocket and squat down, patting the area around me, trying to find the scarf. Afloorboard creaks, and the smell of tobacco grows stronger.
Mystery Man speaks again. “Where are my manners? Let me helpyou.”
He gives me the scarf and pulls me up by the elbow. His handbrushes against the small patch of skin between my glove and sleeve.
Hells-bells!
A vibrating sensation begins in my bones, followed by anuncomfortable tightening of the cranium. Light shatters my peaceful blindnessand a scene forms in my mind. In this psychic realm, I can see andspeak, as I do not in ordinary life. Images slice through my head. Colors.Textures. Brilliance everywhere.
Just as I predicted. I knew a killing was certaintonight.
2
Deo dignus vindice nodus.
A knot worthy of God to untie.
Therevelation drags at me, pulling me deeper, until I am lost in it. A part of theepisode now, I hurry to keep pace with two people walking along a mountain trail.Tall and well-dressed, the man would be pleasant looking were his face notmottled with fury. His female counterpart has a smattering of gold freckles onher nose and wears a sly expression.
“You dare to threaten me?” he asks the woman, spittle flyingfrom his mouth. “No one will believe the words of a lying cheat!”
“Don’t worry, ’ee bleddy dobeck,” she answers. “Folks’ll knowwhat’s true.”
The Mystery Man from the gazebo and a Cornishwoman? I hear itin the rhythm and intonation of her speech. And she’s obviously lived ahand-to-mouth existence with little formal education.
I always warn the victim, though it does little good. “Leave,”I beg her. “Go home.”
We reach a rocky plateau and stop. Despite our beautifulsurroundings, a figure waits silently, winding His watch in the shadows of theevergreens. I do not actually see Sir Death, but I sense the Reaper is there.
Mystery Man rubs his head, as though his temples ache. “Thiswill kill my wife.”
The Cornish woman is a redhead who seems to speak first andthink later. “Your missus’ll be fine. If ’ee pay, that is.”
“I can’t. I don’t have the money yet.”
His blackmailer frowns. “Then dead she be.”
The words are barely out of her mouth before he strikes thewoman. She loses her balance, falls headfirst onto a slab of stone. Quiet, nomovement. Mystery Man kneels down and checks if she is still breathing. Helooks thoughtful and then winces and rubs his head as he did a few moments ago.“I must,” he murmurs. “There’s no other choice.”
Watching him lift the unconscious body from the ground, I smellhis desperation and fear. It’s rotten, like a decaying carcass.
“Stop,” I say. “Whatever trouble you’re in isn’t worth yoursoul.”
He brushes past me and carries the woman to the edge of a deepravine. I follow after and nearly lose my footing, mesmerized by the jaggedrocks at least fifty feet below. The woman’s eyelids flicker open just beforehe throws her over the side. She falls forever, or so it seems, and my screamentwines with hers, echoing through the forest.
Until there is a thud and a terrible silence.
“Murder,” I declare, my voice breaking on the word.
Mystery Man looks in my direction, as though he actually heardme. In all my years as a Visionary, this has only happened a handful of times.I think of the things I’d like to ask him, but the vision fades. Everythinggrows dark, and I return to my senses, back in the gazebo at Stonehenge, blindand mute once more.
The vision was lengthy in the psychic realm but occupied mereseconds of earth time. I cannot tell where the murder happened or when, but onething is certain. The killer is standing beside me.
“Are you unwell?” he asks.
Trembling, I shake my head in response, the woman’s screamstill ringing in my ears. Remove your gloves, I tell myself. Steady now. Putthem in your pocket and do it. Don’t be a coward, you must touch him. I take adeep breath and grab the lapels of the killer’s overcoat, my hands swiftlyclimbing up the heavy material to his face. His intake of breath tells me thatI have surprised him. He doesn’t know what to make of my behavior.
I feel his forehead and work downward, learning all I can. There’sa scar by his right brow, and his cheeks are thin, more so than in the vision. Clean-shaventoo, no beard like before.
“What are you doing?” the man cries, pulling away. “This ismad.”
He shoves me aside, grinds out the end of his cigar on thehandrail and pushes it into his pocket. “You’re a menace to the public,” Mr.Murder says. “Someone should put you away.”
The killer leaves the gazebo quickly, and turns north. Onimpulse, I follow the sound of his footsteps, hands outstretched, but I stumbleon the stairs.
No time to find my cane! He’s moving too fast.
I draw myself up and go after him as music hall celebrantsflood into the street. I grow disoriented amid the noise—lose my sense
