Read Online Barclay, Linwood Novel 08 - Never saw it coming by Linwood Barclay - Free Book Online
Authors: Linwood Barclay
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found a body. Or her car.
And he was as sure as he could be that they never would.
Pull yourself together, he told himself.
The doorbell rang.
Jesus,
he thought. They really
were
listening to his phone, and now they wanted to question him about Laci, about whether he’d killed his wife to be with this other woman.
He took a couple of deep breaths, composed himself, and strode through the living room to the front door. He pulled the curtain back first, to see who it was.
It was a woman.
A woman with green parrot earrings.
Seven
Keisha Ceylon was ready with her “I feel your pain” smile. First impressions were everything. You had to come across as sincere, so you couldn’t overdo the smile. It had to be held back. You didn’t want to show any teeth. No empty-headed Stepford Wife/Jehovah’s Witness smile that looked like it had been pasted on. You had to get into the moment. You had to
believe
you were on a mission. And you had to look as though you were sorry to even be here, that if there was anywhere else on this earth you could be, you would.
But you were
compelled
to be here. You simply had no choice.
She saw the man pull back the curtain to get a look at her, and gave him the smile. Almost apologetic.
Then the door opened.
“Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Garfield?”
“You a reporter? We did the press conference yesterday. There’s nothing else I have to say at this time.” He leaned out of the door, looking past her down to the street, wondering, maybe, if a news van was nearby.
“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Garfield.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Let me give you my card,” she said, handing one to him.
He glanced down at it. The card read:
KEISHA CEYLON
Psychic Finder of Lost Souls
Under that, a web address and a phone number. “What the hell is this?” he asked.
“Like it says there, I’m Keisha, and I’m so very sorry to trouble you at such a time. But I think, if you’ll be kind enough to give me a moment, you won’t regret my knocking on your door.”
He looked at the card again. “Psychic finder. Sounds like total bullshit to me.”
Keisha smiled. Not too much. Made the smile look just a little sad. “I encounter that a lot. Maybe it would be better if I just put the word ‘consultant’ on there, but that would be a misrepresentation of the type of service I provide.”
“A consultant,” he said, slipping her card into his shirt pocket.
“I consult for people who find themselves in situations such as yours, Mr. Garfield.”
“So you’re what, some kind of psychic detective? Like that
Medium
woman on TV?”
“Actually, a bit, yes.”
“You have a nice day, Miss Cylon.”
“That’s Ceylon,” she said, and put a palm on the door as he started closing it. “Let me ask you one thing before you send me away.”
“What’s that?” he said.
“Are things going so well in the search for your wife that you’re willing to dismiss all other avenues?”
She could see the hesitation in his eyes. She said, “I’m not going to kid you, Mr. Garfield. What I do, it takes a leap of faith, I know that. And I’m not always right. It’s not an exact science. But what if there’s a chance, maybe just one chance in ten—a hundred, even—that I can help you find Mrs. Garfield, isn’t that a chance worth taking? If it isn’t, tell me, and I’ll leave here and never trouble you again.”
He held the door, frozen. It was wide enough that he could still see her, but not wide enough to allow her in.
After several seconds of hesitation, he opened it wider. “Fine, then.”
She stepped into the house. There was a small foyer, and a living room to the right with a couch and a couple of soft armchairs. A set of windows along the front, the blinds letting in very little light, and a second, smaller window, on the side wall, where the blinds had not been closed tight.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked. It was always a lot harder for them to throw you out
And he was as sure as he could be that they never would.
Pull yourself together, he told himself.
The doorbell rang.
Jesus,
he thought. They really
were
listening to his phone, and now they wanted to question him about Laci, about whether he’d killed his wife to be with this other woman.
He took a couple of deep breaths, composed himself, and strode through the living room to the front door. He pulled the curtain back first, to see who it was.
It was a woman.
A woman with green parrot earrings.
Seven
Keisha Ceylon was ready with her “I feel your pain” smile. First impressions were everything. You had to come across as sincere, so you couldn’t overdo the smile. It had to be held back. You didn’t want to show any teeth. No empty-headed Stepford Wife/Jehovah’s Witness smile that looked like it had been pasted on. You had to get into the moment. You had to
believe
you were on a mission. And you had to look as though you were sorry to even be here, that if there was anywhere else on this earth you could be, you would.
But you were
compelled
to be here. You simply had no choice.
She saw the man pull back the curtain to get a look at her, and gave him the smile. Almost apologetic.
Then the door opened.
“Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Garfield?”
“You a reporter? We did the press conference yesterday. There’s nothing else I have to say at this time.” He leaned out of the door, looking past her down to the street, wondering, maybe, if a news van was nearby.
“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Garfield.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Let me give you my card,” she said, handing one to him.
He glanced down at it. The card read:
KEISHA CEYLON
Psychic Finder of Lost Souls
Under that, a web address and a phone number. “What the hell is this?” he asked.
“Like it says there, I’m Keisha, and I’m so very sorry to trouble you at such a time. But I think, if you’ll be kind enough to give me a moment, you won’t regret my knocking on your door.”
He looked at the card again. “Psychic finder. Sounds like total bullshit to me.”
Keisha smiled. Not too much. Made the smile look just a little sad. “I encounter that a lot. Maybe it would be better if I just put the word ‘consultant’ on there, but that would be a misrepresentation of the type of service I provide.”
“A consultant,” he said, slipping her card into his shirt pocket.
“I consult for people who find themselves in situations such as yours, Mr. Garfield.”
“So you’re what, some kind of psychic detective? Like that
Medium
woman on TV?”
“Actually, a bit, yes.”
“You have a nice day, Miss Cylon.”
“That’s Ceylon,” she said, and put a palm on the door as he started closing it. “Let me ask you one thing before you send me away.”
“What’s that?” he said.
“Are things going so well in the search for your wife that you’re willing to dismiss all other avenues?”
She could see the hesitation in his eyes. She said, “I’m not going to kid you, Mr. Garfield. What I do, it takes a leap of faith, I know that. And I’m not always right. It’s not an exact science. But what if there’s a chance, maybe just one chance in ten—a hundred, even—that I can help you find Mrs. Garfield, isn’t that a chance worth taking? If it isn’t, tell me, and I’ll leave here and never trouble you again.”
He held the door, frozen. It was wide enough that he could still see her, but not wide enough to allow her in.
After several seconds of hesitation, he opened it wider. “Fine, then.”
She stepped into the house. There was a small foyer, and a living room to the right with a couch and a couple of soft armchairs. A set of windows along the front, the blinds letting in very little light, and a second, smaller window, on the side wall, where the blinds had not been closed tight.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked. It was always a lot harder for them to throw you out
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