Haunting Refrain

Chapter 1

If she had known what it held, she would never have touched it the first time. Now it was too late. The simple sweatband, deceptively harmless, lay like a white asp on the desk top in front of her. Kate McGuire regarded it with loathing. When she touched it, its secret sprang forth like some evil genie, overwhelming her with its force.

Coward. Do it. Pick it up again. The band was such a small thing, she told herself, nothing.

She took a breath, stretched out her shaking hand, and grasped it. The vision slammed into her, instantly.

Hands, cold and hard, tightened around her throat, choking her. Long fingers encircled her neck, and fingernails cut into her flesh. Strong thumbs pressed into her windpipe, forced her head back. She clawed at them, tried to free herself. Blinded by the rain and the curtain of hair that covered her eyes, she couldn’t see the face above her. She fought, desperate for air. Those powerful fingers squeezed harder. The world around her dimmed. She was dying.

“Bitch, bitch!” The voice rang through her head, then faded.

Kate drifted out of the terror and into a deep sadness. Only silence and the scent of rain-washed hemlocks remained. Then, from a distance, she heard new voices, calling her name. She became aware of hands, warm this time, tugging at her arm. She gasped, choking, struggling for air.

Professor Martin Carver, abandoning his role as an observer, pried the headband out of her locked hands and tossed it onto a chair. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Kate, Kate!”

From a long way off she saw him, felt his hands. Her friend, Venice Ashburton, knelt on the other side of the desk, clasping Kate’s arm and fanning her with a lacy handkerchief. “It’s all right, dear. Let it go. It’s over.”

Through a white mist Kate struggled slowly back to the present. She drew air in ragged gulps, fought to quell the queasy waves in her stomach. She blinked at the two figures hovering over her. “I’m okay.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper. She shuddered and touched her throat, still feeling the need for air. What had happened to her?

Martin patted Kate’s shoulder. “Venice, would you get her a Coke?”

Venice started for the door, only to be brought up short by her purse. Martin automatically leaned over and unhooked the shoulder strap from the desk where she’d been sitting.

Kate sank into Martin’s big chair. Her hat tumbled to the floor, loosing a mass of red hair. “You have to tell me who owns that headband.” 

“First you need to tell me what happened. I don't want anything to influence you before you describe what you saw. I'll tell you after that, I promise,” Martin said, pushing the hair back from her pallid face. “Wait for Venice.”

While Kate collected herself, he moved away and took a white index card from his pocket. Exhausted, she slumped in the chair, silently acknowledging the wisdom of his statement. She could tell from his hunched posture that what he had to say wasn’t good.

Martin stared at the card. She knew it contained the data about the sweatband, the owner's name and physical description and any other pertinent information. As she watched, heaviness fell like a mantle over the professor, and he looked every one of his sixty-nine years. A knot formed in her stomach. What was on that card? Who did that damned thing belong to? Deep inside her, fear grew.

She drew inward, reaching for her inner calm, and focused on putting this—this nightmare in perspective. The experiments had begun innocently enough. Venice had urged her to join Professor Martin Carver’s parapsychology group, encouraging her to get out and mix with other people. Kate thought it would be something interesting to do, a harmless break from the fledgling photography business that consumed her for the last year. She’d always had little flashes of knowledge—nothing significant, just brief glimpses that passed through her mind. Intuition, she claimed, when she found her friends’ car keys, her mother’s earring. Or Venice’s purse, though she’d had a lot of practice at that.

Until an hour ago, Kate had considered herself a relatively normal woman—not much money, no love life, but her own person, pursuing her own goals. Generally pretty happy. But normal people did not have visions of murder. Neither did she, she insisted, at least not until tonight, when she’d picked up the headband.

Venice returned with a paper cup.

Martin took the Coke and held it to Kate's lips. “Come on. Drink this.”

She took the sweet drink with shaking hands and forced herself to sip. “Thank you, Venice.”

When she felt able, Kate recounted what she’d experienced, making an effort to remove herself from the vision and be objective. “It was the same as before, only worse. Someone tried to strangle me. I felt these hands closing around my throat. Just squeezing tighter and tighter. He killed me—her.”

“I'm sorry.” Martin patted her hand. “I hoped it would be different this time. Can you describe it? What did you see?”

“Just—just hands around my throat. Choking me. Something covered my eyes, maybe hair.” What else had she seen? What clouded her vision? Water? Tears? All she could think of was the terrible need for air.

“You didn't see anything at all? No one else?” Martin asked.

“It was the same as before. I was that girl. It was happening to me. A face, dark and blurred, loomed over me. I was only aware of the hands—I couldn't breathe. I have a terrible feeling of finality.” She shivered, whispering, “I know she's dead, whoever she is.”

Martin looked sick. “Do you have any feeling about the person strangling her? Was it someone she knows?”

“A man, I think. I couldn't see, but I have an impression of size and strength that suggests a man. That's all.” She looked up at him. “Please tell me what this is about.”

“Only one more question. Could you tell what time of day it was?”

“What does that matter?” she asked. “It was dark. Night. Now whose is it?”

He took a deep breath and held out the card. “The sweatband belongs to Kelly Landrum.”

Kate reached for the card, wondering where she’d heard the name. “Kelly Landrum? Who's—”

“She's the girl who's missing!” Venice cried, catching the cup as it slipped from Kate's hands. She took a quick sip and choked.

Kate snatched the card, needing to see it for herself. She read the name. Kelly Landrum. A spot like a teardrop blurred the blue ink. An omen? Please, don’t let it be true.

“Yes, she's the student who's been missing for four days.” Martin kept his gaze on Kate's drawn face. “Her picture is on every newspaper and television screen in South Carolina. Someone found her car here on the campus. The police have been all over the place since then. We should call them, Kate.”

“No! I haven't seen anything that could help them, and I'm not touching that thing again.” Kate retreated into the chair, pulled her knees up under her chin, and wrapped her skirt around her legs, holding herself tightly. If she didn’t, she might fall apart—the image was so strong, so immediate. She touched her throat. And if it was true . . .

Venice leaned forward and reached over, patting Kate's arm. “It's all right. Remember, whatever you see, it isn't happening to you.” She turned to Martin. “You'll have to let me try.” Venice's face was almost as white as Kate's, but her voice was calm. She looked at the crumpled band.

“All right, Venice, if you're sure.” Martin looked back at Kate.

Torn, Kate watched her friend. Did she want Venice to go through it? Although Venice's theatrics often clouded the picture, Kate considered her truly clairvoyant. Venice might see something herself, or she might pick up Kate’s vision, but either way, Kate would consider it a confirmation. She felt the hands tighten on her neck again, sucked in air.

“No, Venice. Don't do it.” Kate blinked back tears. “It's terrible.”

“I'm all right. I may not see anything at all.” Venice sat down in a student desk and held out her hand. Martin handed her the band.

Venice closed her eyes and pressed the band to her forehead, rocking slightly in the chair. “The night is dark and quiet. I see patterns of light, perhaps reflections in a pool. Trees.” She shivered. “I feel fear, a woman terribly afraid. The air is filled with menace—a presence, dark, angry, raging!”

Abruptly she straightened. The remaining color drained from her face. Her eyes widened, then rolled upward as she swayed like a reed in the wind.

Martin threw his arm around the stricken woman and snatched the headband from her hands, tossing it onto his desk.

Kate leapt from the chair and caught Venice's icy hands in her own. The three of them clung together for a minute until Venice took a deep breath and drew herself up. “It's all right—it's gone now. Is there any more of that drink?”

“I can't believe this is happening.” Stifling a burst of hysterical laughter, Kate gave herself a mental shake and put the remaining Coca-Cola in Martin's outstretched hand.

Martin, none too steady himself, held the drink for Venice. “What did you see?”

“A lovely young woman with brown hair. Hands closing tightly around her throat.” Venice shivered, touching the gold band at her neck. “'Bitch. Lying bitch.'” Frowning, she added, “I'm sure I heard the words over the roaring in my ears—a deep, grinding voice.”

Kate rubbed her eyes. Why? Why was this happening to her? She wasn’t psychic, just had a modest little ability to see things in her mind when she touched something—and even that wasn’t reliable. And now this terrible vision. She felt as if she were the woman being strangled. “Venice is seeing it from the outside. I see it as if it’s happening to me,” she said.

“That’s an interesting point. I’ll have to record that in my journal.” Martin brightened as he considered the new information and returned to the intellectual implications of the experiment.

Why this sudden clear vision of murder? Kate wondered while the professor scribbled happily in his black notebook, the women momentarily forgotten. She had no connection to the missing girl. Nor had she ever experienced such a vivid vision. Nothing on this level.

“I wonder how Kate is receiving such a personal picture,” Martin said, fingering the card in his pocket.

“Perhaps Kelly was in this classroom, or sat in this desk. Maybe there’s a stronger link than you’re aware of, Kate,” Venice said.

Was I thinking out loud? Kate looked at the pair of them, startled to have them both reading her mind, although she should be used to it with Venice. Kate forced a smile, knowing Venice meant well in spite of her insatiable curiosity. The plump older woman always seemed to be slightly out of focus to Kate. She had a scarf or shawl trailing down her arm, bracelets tangling in her clothes, or her hair was askew—always something. But she had a good heart, and Kate could count on her. She’d known Venice for years, but they only became friends during the last couple of years when Venice commissioned a portrait in Kate’s new photography business. The picture was outstanding, a great advertisement. Kate hadn’t wanted to charge her, but Venice insisted on paying, making it official.

Looking at her now, Kate wondered how she had ever achieved such a haunting effect. Daffy, dear, kind—those were the words that came to mind, but the darkly enigmatic study thrilled Venice.

Noticing the older woman’s struggle, Kate reached over to release Venice’s bracelet from her shawl. Smiling briefly, Kate thought that with the portrait, she might have committed fraud instead of capturing the essence of the woman’s soul, as Venice believed.

Kate sank back into the desk and thought about the portrait. It had gotten her into Martin Carver’s parapsychology experiments. The mysterious picture somehow convinced Venice of Kate’s psychic ability, and she insisted the young woman join the professor's group. Kate found it fun until tonight.

“This is too much,” Martin said, interrupting her thoughts. “We have to call the police. I don't know what any of this means, but that sweatband belongs to someone who's been missing for four days, and you're seeing something that could be important.”

“No, please don't,” Kate said. “I'm not a real psychic, and I don't want any part of this. They won't believe us anyway.” She fished her hat out from under the desk where it had rolled, and brushed it off. Looking up, she dared them to contradict her. “I'm not touching that headband again. Not for anything.”

“But, dear. If we could help the police through our gifts—”

“You can help them with your gift, Venice, but leave me out of it. I am not psychic. Besides, how could this possibly help? The police already suspect something has happened to her.” She jammed the hat on her head, glaring at the pair of them. “And no one had better mention my name in this. I'd probably loose my only serious clients—they’ll think I’m crazy. Or worse. Don’t forget, a significant portion of the people here in the Bible Belt do not look kindly on this sort of thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with what we do.” Venice tried to step away from the desk but was secured by the tangled fringe of her shawl. Tugging at the length of silk, she said, “Besides, we could use my name. I do give readings for people.”

“Well, I don't. Leave me out of it.” Kate crossed her arms over her chest, hunching her shoulders. The memory of cold fingers brushed across her neck. She didn’t want any part of this.

“I can’t help but feel you’re right about Kelly. I hope I’m wrong.” Martin reached over and extricated Venice. “Come on, Kate. I'll walk you and Venice to your cars.”

“Thanks.” Kate wanted to get home, but she was still shaken and didn't relish the idea of being responsible for Venice in the darkened parking lot. “The car—Kelly Landrum's. Where was it found?”

“Behind the library,” Martin said, “where she was last seen on Friday night. The keys were still in the door.”

“It would have been dark. That’s why you wanted to know the time of day—to see if it fit,” Kate said, digging out her car keys.

“Yes.” Venice waved her hand skyward. “It was night, and the library is just over there, through those trees. That’s what I saw—the trees at the back of the parking lot.”

“I'll wait until tomorrow and think about it, but I’m convinced we should report what you’ve seen. Meanwhile, don't say a word about this to anyone. Is that clear?” Martin looked pointedly at Venice, who rounded her eyes innocently.

“Yes, Martin.”

Venice sounded unusually meek to Kate. “Venice, you won’t call them, will you?”

The older woman turned to Kate. “I won’t call the police, I promise, but you do realize there’s a murderer out there, don’t you?”

Kate accepted her promise but remained skeptical. Venice always managed to do things her way.

Buy at Amazon--now $.99