Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 30

"The anger is the only thing that is going to keep you going, and alive," Zandra says after a few minutes in the Jeep. "Don't think you're better than it. Sink into it. You won't get energy from anywhere else."

Well, that and the pep pills.

An unblinking Vince says, "I know."

Zandra wouldn't mind a pill herself, but the adrenaline is enough for now.

It's morning now, and Zandra can better see the mess she made in the back seat. She wiped the seats down and packed the floor with towels before entering.

Vince prepped for the drive with more "pep pills." Even if he doesn't feel exhausted, Zandra can see it draped across his body. The pills are the only thing keeping the Jeep steadied on the road. Zandra doubly appreciates that given the case of explosives sitting like stray fast food wrappers on the front passenger seat.

There are advantages to having a tweaker in your corner when you're up against someone like Gene.

"Where'd you get all this?" Zandra says, motioning to the passenger seat.

"Doesn't matter," Vince says.

"You're getting paid by the political party opposing Gene's candidacy. Did they give you the money and then you bought it? Or did they give you the weapons?" Zandra says.

"Doesn't matter," Vince says again.

Whenever someone tells you something isn't important, it's usually important.

"I'd like to know the name of the person who's going to sign my check before I get the chance to cash it," Zandra says.

"Doesn't matter," Vince says. He wipes his eyes and pops another pep pill.

"Why not?" Zandra says.

"Because you don't need to know," Vince says. "Don't ask again."

The Jeep continues to the hospital in silence. The journey back into Stevens Point is as uneventful as a milk run.

Until Vince decides to run over a pedestrian.

"Is that him?" Vince says as the Jeep slows for a four-way stop near the hospital. He points to a man in a suit hobbling through the crosswalk in front of the Jeep. He's taking his sweet time.

How would I know? I've never actually seen the guy in the first place.

Zandra stretches to get a clear view from the back seat. The man certainly has scars running across his forehead and down the side of his face. But Zandra never got a description about which side of the face the scar is on. Right or left? Or both?

Vince doesn't know, either.

"Is that him?" Vince says, repeating himself. He aims his finger at the man in the crosswalk like a gun.

"I can't tell," Zandra says.

Vince turns in his seat to face Zandra. "You're the psychic. Tell me."

He's losing it.

Zandra scans the man's profile. He's in his 50s, dressed in a suit for some reason, and walking with a cane. She can tell from the distance between each of his slow paces and the limp in his gait that he's got a leg injury complemented by back problems. He's white, a little under six feet tall and thin as a rail.

Not exactly the profile I had in mind.

"Fuck it," Vince says. He returns to the wheel and shifts the Jeep into drive. The man in the crosswalk still hobbles in front of the Jeep.

"Wait," Zandra says.

It's too late.

With a crunch and a cry, the man in the crosswalk hits the pavement. It's a low-speed collision, but it's enough to upgrade the cane to a walker. Vince opens the driver's side door and hops out. The man on the ground looks more confused than in pain, but that changes after Vince's boot makes contact. Vince turns into a flurry of limbs and profanity, oblivious to the drivers in other cars at the four-way stop with cell phones in hand.

This isn't what I meant by letting the anger fuel you.

Zandra tucks her face into her purple sleeve and keeps her eyes down as she opens the door and rolls out of the Jeep. She plays up her bad ankle, letting it drag on the asphalt.

Maybe they'll think that psychopath in the crosswalk abducted me, and this is my escape.

It works.

"Are you OK?" a man in scrubs wearing a backpack says to Zandra after she shuffles onto the sidewalk. He looks to be a nurse walking to work at the hospital.

Zandra keeps her face concealed. She whispers as pitifully as she can, "Need help." Then she ruffles the purple gown to allow the puke, blood and sweat stapled to her skin to waft toward the nurse.

Take it all in. I even smell like I've been held captive in some maniac's bunker.

"Come with me," the nurse says and slips an arm across Zandra's shoulder. The reassurance carries a warmth all its own.

Perfect.