One
“The vision comes with the last snowfall of spring.”
It sounded ridiculous. I knew that. But if I didn’t at least try and explain the creepy things going on in my life I’d never get any help. And I needed help. Desperately.
Dr. Cautell sat across from me. Perched on the edge of her chair and protected by the expanse of her heavy oak desk, she clicked her pen. Twice. Three times. The sound echoed in the silence and skittered along my nerves. Probably one of those torture devices psychiatrists use to make people talk.
It worked.
“Look, this is North Dakota not California. I’m not prone to—" I flapped my hands in the air— “flights of fancy.”
“Tell me more about the visions, Ms. De’brie.” Dr. Cautell looked like someone’s grandmother—not mine. Her gray hair was cut pixie style, and still held remnants of faded blond. Her eyes, a clear, piercing blue, tried to probe into my soul.
“They’ve come every year for the past three years. Wake me up in the middle of the night. I get a clear picture of a murder. Some murder, somewhere.” I licked my lips and wished for a bottle of water. Make that a dirty martini with bleu-cheese stuffed olives.
She inclined her head for me to continue.
“I don’t see the killer. Just the murder. But I know what’s happening. Through his eyes, his hands.” I shuddered, all three visions hovering at the edge of my mind.
“Dreams can seem real.” Her voice was soft, soothing, and lightly laced with slow vowels that carried a touch of lament. The Dakota accent. It didn’t put me at ease.
“Nope. Not a dream. I dream all the time. Never remember a thing, well, rarely. This is different. I’m there. It’s like looking through his mind, knowing he’s going to kill. Watching him kill. Feeling him kill.”
A martini was definitely in my future, ten o’clock in the morning or not.
“And your understanding is that the murders have happened.” Her face was smooth, not a trace of expression. The woman was the consummate psychiatrist. Could probably win awards for not leading the witness.
“Yes. CNN has confirmed all three of my visions. Usually within a week or two after the snowstorm.” I crossed my legs and my skin prickled against the denim fabric of my blue jeans.
Silence. She was definitely one of those therapists who don’t talk. A real pain in the butt, that. I was here for help. Maybe a question would trick her into offering an opinion—or something, anything other than silence. “What’s the matter with me?”
“Is there something the matter with you?”
I slid to the front of the chair, levered my elbows on my knees and glared. “What do you think? How normal is it to have visions of murders while they happen? And connected to the last snowstorm of spring? It’s loony. I want it to stop. I’m here so you can make it stop.”
How dense could the woman be?
She inclined her head again. Big help.
“In May. When it’s time for the snow thing to happen. I get obsessed with the weather station. Listen every few hours. It’s. Not. Normal.”
I slid back in my chair and folded my hands in my lap. Capable hands, strong fingers, short nails without polish. I come from Haitian ancestry. Latte skin, black spiral curls, black eyes, full lips, curvy body, and totally out of place around the Scandinavian population of Minot, North Dakota. I stand out. Probably look crazy just on general principle. Dr. Cautell was doing her best. It wasn’t her fault I’d been born to black beans and fried plantains rather than lutefisk and krumkake. No wonder she didn’t know what to do with me.
