Shirley Damsgaard - The Trouble with Witches (Ophelia & Abby Mysteries, No. 3)

Scattered pictures of a man lay on the table in front of me. The images drifted through my mind as I ran my hand over them. The hot Iowa sun beat down on a couple as they enjoyed a picnic by a quiet lake. The man's dark hair absorbed the heat, and tiny beads of sweat popped out on his upper lip. The woman, smiling, reached out and wiped the beads away. He caught her hand and kissed it.

The scene changed and the man stood alone in an empty pasture. The once green grass was now brown, cooked by the summer heat. Only the cawing of crows broke the silence. The man looked up at the sky and watched while they circled above him. Bowing his head, his eyes traveled to the gun he held in his hand. A sense of total hopelessness filled his heart. And slowly

Opening my eyes, I scooped up the pictures and placed them back in a folder. I snapped the folder shut as if doing so would erase the images from my mind.

"Well?" Henry asked impatiently.

Sliding the folder away, I looked up to see his dark brown eyes roaming my face.

They belonged to Henry Comacho , detective with the state of Iowa's Department of Crime Investigation. The Iceman. The man who'd suspected me of being involved with two murders. And who now wanted me to use my psychic talent to find a missing man.

His dark black hair glinted in the afternoon sun pouring through my kitchen windows as we sat at the table. His brow wrinkled in a frown while his eyes searched my face. In those eyes, I could see what a struggle asking for my help had been for him. He had a desperate need to find the missing man, but at the same time was skeptical about using a psychic to do so. But the desperation had won. So here he was, with his folder of pictures, asking me for answers to his questions.

And what did I have for him? Nothing.

What had I been thinking? Why did I let him talk me into this? When he'd asked me last spring, after I'd helped the authorities catch the man who'd murdered my friend Brian five years ago, I'd been reluctant. Now I felt the frustration over the lack of clarity that comes with my so-called gift grind at me.

Lowering my eyes, I stared at the folder. Why were the images always vague and couched in ambiguity? A road sign, or something recognizable, would've been helpful in locating the missing man.

"Well?" Henry asked again, startling me out of my thoughts.

Raising my eyes, I rubbed my forehead. "I think he's deada suicide. In a pasture."

"Gee, a pasture in Iowa. That should be easy to find," he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "I don't suppose out of the thousands in the state you could tell me which one?"

"One with crows."

L______

"That's it? One with crows? No cows, no landmarks like a river, a hill, or woods nearby?"

"Nope," I said, and pushed the folder across the table toward him. "I'm sorry, but I told you I couldn't guarantee that I could help you. Visions are unpredictable at the best, symbolic at the worst. All I know is he was overcome by helplessness and committed suicide in an empty pasture somewhere."

"Crows? Could they be symbolic?" Henry asked, placing a hand over the folder.

"I doubt it, but I don't know for sure." I sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. I really wish I saw more."

A frown creased Henry's forehead. "Yeah, I do, too." He ran his other hand through his hair. "If the guy is dead and if we could find his body, it would provide some closure for his family."

As he said it, I felt a little warmth slip through the shield of ice Henry kept around him most of the time. He really was a compassionate man, but it was a side he didn't let show very often. I'd seen that side of him when he was with his niece, Isabella, and around my grandmother, Abby. But with me, the wall was usually firmly in place.

I covered his hand resting on top of the folder with mine. "I really am sorry."

The flow of warmth flickered, and then stopped. Henry squirmed and pulled his hand away. "We keep looking. Who knows, maybe you're wrong. Visions aren't always one hundred percent right, are they? Maybe we'll find the guy on the beach in the Bahamas."

"Maybe," I replied, my tone sounding unconvincing even to my ears.

Henry picked up the folder and stood to leave. I followed him to the door, where he paused and removed his sunglasses from his pocket. Shoving them on his face, he turned.

"It was a stupid idea to ask you to look at those pictures," he said abruptly. "If he'd committed suicide like your vision indicated, someone would've noticed his abandoned car, but it's never been found, either. That tells me the guy's still alive."

I rolled my eyes in dismay. A lack of hard evidence had driven Henry to ask for my help, but the truth was , he would never see my gift as anything more than mumbo-jumbo.

He frowned and pivoted away from the open door and me. From the doorway, I watched as he marched to his car, slammed the car door, and pulled away without a backward glance.

After shutting the door, I leaned against it. Scrubbing my face with both hands, I thought about my gift. Would this talent ever work the way I wanted it to? Would I ever be able to help someone before it was too late?

I hadn't told Henry everything. I hadn't told him of the last glimpse I'd had of the man. Only what I saw wasn't a man, it was a pile of bleached bones, picked clean by the crows.

A big black spider sat on Mr. Carroll's shoulder, while a vein in his forehead throbbed as he yelled at me. He wasn't happy about the library's latest book order. He was sick and tired of all the smut. Each word was underscored by a constant jangling in the background.

Where was the sound coming from? My eyes left Mr. Carroll's face, searching for the sound, until the pounding of his skeletal fist caught my attention again.

My eyes traveled from his face down his body. The tendons in his skinny neck stood out as he screamed at me, and I could see his bony chest wheeze in and out. His ancient ribs, covered by thin, dry, almost translucent skin, expanded like a bellows with each breath. As my eyes traveled past his chest, I shuddered and said a silent thank-you that the counter prevented me from seeing the rest of his naked, eighty-year-old body.

Whoawait a second. What was Mr. Carroll doing in the library nude? And what was making that jangling noise?

My eyes shot open and I found myself staring at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom. Thank God, I was dreaming. But why was I dreaming about Mr. Carroll naked in the library? And why hadn't the jangling stopped when I woke up?

The phone, the jangling was the phone. My hand shot out to grab it, and in the process I knocked my alarm clock off the nightstand with a loud clatter. Queenie , my cat, who had also been sleeping soundly on the pillow next to me, gave me an indignant look and stalked off the bed. Lady, my dog, startled by the loud noise, gave a short bark.

I shoved a handful of dark brown hair out of my face and stared at the ringing phone as if it were a snake.