Visions
Page 24
“And the other times?”
“It looked at me. My concern is that it is a fetch. A harbinger of death.”
“Ricky’s death.”
“Right. You see it: you die. For me, it’s a warning, because I can read omens. But if Ricky saw it . . .” I exhaled. “I texted him, tonight, pretending I just wanted to say I enjoyed our coffee, but I let out a huge sigh of relief when he texted back. Which feels crazy.”
For ten seconds, Rose didn’t respond.
“So . . .” I finally prodded.
“I’m deciding how to tell you this without giving you ammunition to think you really are imagining things, which is what you’d prefer.”
“I don’t want—”
“I’ve told you the sight runs in the Walsh family. When I started having prophetic dreams, my relatives all told me how lucky I was, how they wished it was them. They were lying. They were thanking the gods it wasn’t them. People think it would be wonderful to see into the future. Just as, I’m sure, they think it would be wonderful to see warnings and signs. But it’s not. For every ounce it makes your life easier, it makes it a pound harder. You have a gift you cannot share without being locked in a mental institution. Which is one reason I’d urge you to mend fences with Gabriel. He accepts what you can do, and you will need someone like that in your life. Besides me.”
“I—”
“My sales pitch for my nephew ends there. Back to the point. While this is clearly no ordinary beast, others can see it. So it exists and seems supernatural in nature. But is it a fetch? Patrick’s correct—that’s the most common meaning of a large black dog. And yet . . .”
“What else is there?”
“You keep calling it a hound. But it doesn’t resemble a typical American hound dog, and that term’s not used in traditional folklore. It’s called a Black Shuck in eastern England, barghest or gytrash in northern England, moddey dhoo in Manx, Church Grim throughout England . . . but never hound.”
“Conan Doyle.”
“Ah. Hound of the Baskervilles. Of course.”
She nodded, but I sat there, thinking, until I finally said, “I thought of it as a hound before Patrick said Black Shuck. But I also thought of The Hound of the Baskervilles before he said Black Shuck. ‘There stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.’ So . . . I don’t know. I guess I was thinking Baskervilles.”
“Either way, I’m not convinced it’s a fetch,” Rose said. “I think you’re correct that others can sometimes sense the supernatural. Seeing it affected Ricky Gallagher, and he wasn’t sure why. I’ll look into folklore on black dogs and hounds. In the meantime, I believe I heard Gabriel drive up. If you’ll let him in, I’ll make tea.”
—
Rose brought tea and then left us alone. We talked about Pamela first. Gabriel had officially launched an appeal. Chandler still wouldn’t speak to him. There were no leads in Anderson’s murder, probably because the police didn’t consider it a murder at all. For them it was simple: a man loses half his foot, is facing life in prison, and ODs on morphine.
Next up on the agenda? Ciara Conway. Gabriel couldn’t do more than quietly investigate, much as I had been doing. If he wanted to ask the police about it in an official capacity, he needed an excuse . . . like having his office check into it on behalf of the elders of Cainsville.
“I could use your help obtaining theirs,” he said. “The town elders aren’t blind to my . . . unconventional business practices.”
“They’ll suspect you aren’t offering out of the goodness of your heart.”
“I can ask for compensation, but that reduces the chance they’ll agree.”
“I’ll speak to them,” I said. “But how do I explain my interest?”
“By working for me.”
I stiffened.
“It’s a way to gain work experience while helping your new town. I’m going to formalize your job offer. I know we’d planned to discuss that on your first shift. I’ll get it in writing for you now. Hours, pay, and such. I need a day or two to put something together.”
“I don’t want—”
“I would like to make the offer, which you may then refuse.” He stood. “Tell Rose I said goodbye. I’ll see myself out.”
I followed him out to the hall.
“Gabriel?” I said as he opened the front door.
He turned, a stray slip of moonlight illuminating a sliver of his face, blue eyes glowing almost preternaturally in the darkness. “Yes?”
I opened my mouth to say thank you, then stopped.
“Good night,” I said finally.
A dip of his head, the moonlight evaporating, his expression lost in the darkness. “Good night, Olivia.”
He backed out and pulled the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At lunch, I called Ricky to discuss where to meet tomorrow. It took my entire break. What can I say? He’s a good conversationalist.
When my phone rang early that afternoon, I saw who was calling and . . . and I hesitated. Then I felt bad about hesitating and called James back.
“I’ll make it quick,” he said. “I had lunch with the deputy mayor, and he asked me to join his table at a fund-raiser tonight. It’s a plus one, of course, which means I’m in the market for a guest and really hoping you’ll say yes, because if my mother finds out I have tickets, you know who I’ll have to take. I’d rather have you on my arm.”
“So that’s why I’m invited? Ornamental value?”
“Of course. Why else?”
I laughed.
“Come with me, Liv. It’s not a public statement. I’ll deflect any questions about our relationship. It’ll be as painless as possible, and I’ll take you for ice cream afterward.”
“Scooter’s?”
“Technically, that’s frozen custard. But yes, Scooter’s. So you’ll come?”
“For the custard.”
—
In the past month, I’d learned a lot about myself. I might even have matured, though I’m not sure I’d go that far. What I had not done, though, was develop any greater appreciation for charity dinners.
“It looked at me. My concern is that it is a fetch. A harbinger of death.”
“Ricky’s death.”
“Right. You see it: you die. For me, it’s a warning, because I can read omens. But if Ricky saw it . . .” I exhaled. “I texted him, tonight, pretending I just wanted to say I enjoyed our coffee, but I let out a huge sigh of relief when he texted back. Which feels crazy.”
For ten seconds, Rose didn’t respond.
“So . . .” I finally prodded.
“I’m deciding how to tell you this without giving you ammunition to think you really are imagining things, which is what you’d prefer.”
“I don’t want—”
“I’ve told you the sight runs in the Walsh family. When I started having prophetic dreams, my relatives all told me how lucky I was, how they wished it was them. They were lying. They were thanking the gods it wasn’t them. People think it would be wonderful to see into the future. Just as, I’m sure, they think it would be wonderful to see warnings and signs. But it’s not. For every ounce it makes your life easier, it makes it a pound harder. You have a gift you cannot share without being locked in a mental institution. Which is one reason I’d urge you to mend fences with Gabriel. He accepts what you can do, and you will need someone like that in your life. Besides me.”
“I—”
“My sales pitch for my nephew ends there. Back to the point. While this is clearly no ordinary beast, others can see it. So it exists and seems supernatural in nature. But is it a fetch? Patrick’s correct—that’s the most common meaning of a large black dog. And yet . . .”
“What else is there?”
“You keep calling it a hound. But it doesn’t resemble a typical American hound dog, and that term’s not used in traditional folklore. It’s called a Black Shuck in eastern England, barghest or gytrash in northern England, moddey dhoo in Manx, Church Grim throughout England . . . but never hound.”
“Conan Doyle.”
“Ah. Hound of the Baskervilles. Of course.”
She nodded, but I sat there, thinking, until I finally said, “I thought of it as a hound before Patrick said Black Shuck. But I also thought of The Hound of the Baskervilles before he said Black Shuck. ‘There stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.’ So . . . I don’t know. I guess I was thinking Baskervilles.”
“Either way, I’m not convinced it’s a fetch,” Rose said. “I think you’re correct that others can sometimes sense the supernatural. Seeing it affected Ricky Gallagher, and he wasn’t sure why. I’ll look into folklore on black dogs and hounds. In the meantime, I believe I heard Gabriel drive up. If you’ll let him in, I’ll make tea.”
—
Rose brought tea and then left us alone. We talked about Pamela first. Gabriel had officially launched an appeal. Chandler still wouldn’t speak to him. There were no leads in Anderson’s murder, probably because the police didn’t consider it a murder at all. For them it was simple: a man loses half his foot, is facing life in prison, and ODs on morphine.
Next up on the agenda? Ciara Conway. Gabriel couldn’t do more than quietly investigate, much as I had been doing. If he wanted to ask the police about it in an official capacity, he needed an excuse . . . like having his office check into it on behalf of the elders of Cainsville.
“I could use your help obtaining theirs,” he said. “The town elders aren’t blind to my . . . unconventional business practices.”
“They’ll suspect you aren’t offering out of the goodness of your heart.”
“I can ask for compensation, but that reduces the chance they’ll agree.”
“I’ll speak to them,” I said. “But how do I explain my interest?”
“By working for me.”
I stiffened.
“It’s a way to gain work experience while helping your new town. I’m going to formalize your job offer. I know we’d planned to discuss that on your first shift. I’ll get it in writing for you now. Hours, pay, and such. I need a day or two to put something together.”
“I don’t want—”
“I would like to make the offer, which you may then refuse.” He stood. “Tell Rose I said goodbye. I’ll see myself out.”
I followed him out to the hall.
“Gabriel?” I said as he opened the front door.
He turned, a stray slip of moonlight illuminating a sliver of his face, blue eyes glowing almost preternaturally in the darkness. “Yes?”
I opened my mouth to say thank you, then stopped.
“Good night,” I said finally.
A dip of his head, the moonlight evaporating, his expression lost in the darkness. “Good night, Olivia.”
He backed out and pulled the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At lunch, I called Ricky to discuss where to meet tomorrow. It took my entire break. What can I say? He’s a good conversationalist.
When my phone rang early that afternoon, I saw who was calling and . . . and I hesitated. Then I felt bad about hesitating and called James back.
“I’ll make it quick,” he said. “I had lunch with the deputy mayor, and he asked me to join his table at a fund-raiser tonight. It’s a plus one, of course, which means I’m in the market for a guest and really hoping you’ll say yes, because if my mother finds out I have tickets, you know who I’ll have to take. I’d rather have you on my arm.”
“So that’s why I’m invited? Ornamental value?”
“Of course. Why else?”
I laughed.
“Come with me, Liv. It’s not a public statement. I’ll deflect any questions about our relationship. It’ll be as painless as possible, and I’ll take you for ice cream afterward.”
“Scooter’s?”
“Technically, that’s frozen custard. But yes, Scooter’s. So you’ll come?”
“For the custard.”
—
In the past month, I’d learned a lot about myself. I might even have matured, though I’m not sure I’d go that far. What I had not done, though, was develop any greater appreciation for charity dinners.
