Zandra stuffs her pockets with trinkets, props and other useful distractions before getting in the car with Charlie. What should've been a short drive across downtown to the police station doesn't happen. Charlie wants to meet up at a farmhouse outside of town. Keep things discreet.
The two pass on small talk. Zandra spends her time inventorying the contents of Charlie's vehicle. It's not a squad car. It's a rear-wheel drive, two-door Pontiac Sunfire. Not the most practical choice for Wisconsin given the winters, still a couple months off. A cop should know better. The car either isn't Charlie's or it's all she can afford. If the latter is the case, then her credit sucks. More bad decisions, just like the drinking.
None of that's for certain, but life is always a game of odds. Zandra's compressed and honed her luck for years. She doesn't roll with dice. She rolls with diamonds.
Two containers of Visine rest in the center console. One is empty, the other full. The vehicle smells of cheap, scented spray, the kind better reserved for gas station bathrooms. A couple empty boxes of .40 caliber jacketed hollow-point ammunition made by Crate 27, the type used exclusively by the police department, sit on the floor near her feet. Probably left over from target practice, but it's sloppy form nonetheless. All Zandra needs is an empty beer can to complete the mental picture.
Zandra's eyes fall on well-worn indentations in the center of the back seat, the only part of the car completely free of fast food detritus. The indentations roughly match the dimensions of a booster seat, suggesting Charlie could be a divorced parent or the aunt to a child. More cards for Zandra to play later.
Zandra could turn those same observational powers inward. She might note the hate clawing inside her for Stevens Point. For the people in it. For those keeping it safe and ignorant, like Charlie.
Or Zandra might analyze why her pulse raced when Charlie offered a chance to find the missing girl. Why else would she accept other than to fuck over the department that took such enthusiasm in doing the same to her years ago?
But she doesn't turn her gaze inwards. She spends enough time alone trying to manage those feelings. To cover them up with a gaudy gown, truckloads of cigarettes and sparkling trinkets. She coats herself in these things not because she enjoys it, but because it works. Zandra's colorful veneer settles Stevens Point's nerves. Keeps the money coming in.
Charlie stops the car at a mundane farmhouse. Doesn't look operational save for the house itself, stuck in time out between two deciduous monoliths.
"This is it," Charlie says. She rolls up her flannel sleeves. "We're meeting with Captain Fred Dobrogost, the lead for the Elle Carey case from our department."
Dobrogost is a Polish last name. No surprise there. Central Wisconsin is an intensely Polish part of the state. It's said there are more Poles in Chicago than in Warsaw. The trend continues up into Stevens Point and beyond.
Back in Poland, "Fred" would've gone by "Fryderyk" or some variation. Not that it matters now. In Stevens Point, the established "names" are all Polish. Chances are good that Fred's family roots run deep. He's probably well connected and well groomed. That means a cozy relationship with the big businesses in town. It wouldn't surprise Zandra if Fred knew little Elle Carey personally through family connections. The "Carey" surname, at least in Stevens Point, is an Americanized version of "Czerwinski." No one in the area questions the ethnic non sequitur. This type of whitewashing happened all the time for simplicity's sake.
Zandra's only slightly off from her initial hunch. Fred is indeed well groomed, but his outfit doesn't match. He's in a Chicago Cubs jersey and jeans. Another attempt at a disguise by Stevens Point's finest. Try as he may, Zandra still picks up on the phoniness underneath Fred's limp handshake.
"Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff. You understand how it is, though," Fred says as if it exempts him from the backhanded insult at Zandra.
Zandra stays quiet. She doesn't get the feeling they brought her here to listen to her talk.
Charlie cuts in to break the awkward pause.
"Zandra and I were just discussing the Elle Cary case, and how one of Stevens Point's most famous residents might lend one of her three eyes," Charlie says as the three take seats around an antique table.
"Infamous," Zandra says, her voice dry as cement. "Not famous."
Fred clears his throat and leans backward in his chair. "Well, you're well known anyway," he says. "Here's the thing, Zandra. The Stevens Point Police Department is supporting state and federal agencies any way it can with Elle Carey. To be frank, the Carey family isn't happy with the progress. They suggested we try something different. They'd heard of you, of course, and wanted to bring you in to help. They're that desperate."
Another backhanded insult, but this time it yields better information. Zandra can tell Fred isn't telling the whole story. No surprise there, but it's interesting how he cleared his throat and leaned backward. Two traits not typically accompanied by truthful people, at least most of the time.
Zandra decides to test the theory with a yes-or-no question and watch the movement of Fred's head. Shaking it yes or no, despite what a person says, reveals the actual answer nine times out of 10.
"The family specifically requested me?" Zandra says.
"Yes, the Carey family wanted to bring you in on this," Fred says, although his head, ever so slightly, shakes side to side.
Wrong.
Zandra leans in toward Fred. "There's no way the Carey family asked for me. Of any family in Stevens Point, they'd be the last. Unless you forgot what happened at Soma Falls," she says. "You want to talk, you need to be truthful."
Fred shifts in his chair. Clears his throat again. Gives a nervous grin to Charlie. "She like this with you, too?" he says.
"Yes," Zandra says before Charlie can reply.
"Fine. No, Zandra, the Carey family didn't request you. We did. Not because the department believes in psychics, but because you seem to have a knack for getting lucky. Maybe you can work with Charlie and give the case a fresh set of eyes."
So it's the police department that's desperate, not the family. Way to try to save face.
Zandra thinks back to the last time she spoke to the Carey family. It took place through a lawyer.
"Why should I give a damn to help you?" Zandra says.
"Aren't you tired of living on the fringes? It's time to be the hero again," Fred says.
Twenty-five years ago, those heroic moments after Soma Falls didn't last long enough. Even in an age without the Internet or 24-hour news networks, the tide shifted quickly.
Zandra wants to say, "What's so great about playing the hero?" but she stops herself. She'd had every opportunity to leave Stevens Point after Soma Falls. But she made a promise to herself the day she realized things would never be the same: ruin the ones who destroyed her one chance at a decent life years ago. Who demolished her good name. Who never hesitated to point fingers and label her. "Trash." "Whore." "Harlot." "Witch."
Even today, those same people walk Stevens Point, the disguise of their perfect teeth and smiling faces hiding the stains they launder each week by gracing the churches with an appearance. Good for them. Their warm costumes must feel great over their cold shoulders, unlike the purple gown Zandra wears.
It'd be easy enough to refuse to help find Elle Carey, but that doesn't feel like the satisfying, knuckle-bleeding punch Zandra anticipated for all these years. Saying "no" is too easy. Not personal enough.
It's time once again to wear the cloak of her psychic persona, to retreat into her gown and trinkets. To embrace that patronizing nook Stevens Point crammed her into and then hastily forgot. Until now. Now she would make them remember.
"There's a child at risk. Of course I'll help," Zandra says.
Fred claps his hands together. They're desk job hands, smooth and even. Not like Charlie's hands, which bear the wreckage of abuse exacted and received.
"Perfect. You and Charlie will work together starting tomorrow morning," Fred says. "Oh, and one more thing. This is a semi-official operation only. Sort of like a pet project, if you will. So don't be surprised if the public doesn't know about this until and unless you find Elle."
Zandra hacks something dark into her sleeve and rises from the chair. Her old bones slip and slide against each other. "Of course. Wouldn't want anyone to know you're working with a freak," she says.