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

Chapter 17

"Information obtained through observation is as magic to the unobservant."

~Zandra's Law, as thought to herself on the opening day of Sneak Peek 25 years ago

They skip the helicopter this time, as it would be the most offensive way to drop in on stretch of road bordering a swath of residential developments. A Jeep parked in a garage built into the side of hill near the bunker works much better, even if it does require traversing a two-track goat path to get back to paved ground.

Wouldn't goats be a better choice for post-doomsday survival? Not that a Jeep isn't nice, but at least goats keep the grass mowed.

It's well past sunset by the time they reach the road construction in Plover. Zandra insists it doesn't matter. Psychic impressions don't require light.

Actually, they do, but I don't care. Better to do this in the dark, where no one can see.

Vince kills the headlights from the driver's seat while Jo slaps a mag into a pistol.

"In case it gets hairy," she says and holsters the firearm inside her waistband.

"Save a couple bullets for me," Zandra says and opens the door to exit the vehicle.

That didn't come out right.

Vince twists his neck in the driver's seat to face Zandra. "You sure you don't want us to sweep the place first?"

"No. Let me work," Zandra says and scoots out the door.

"Alright, alright, I won't poke you in your third eye," Vince says.

So many puns, so little time.

Zandra picks her way through the cones, stopping to pick up a stray, plastic rod half her height. Despite the glow of the houses 100 yards away, it's hard to see where the pavement ends and the roadwork begins. She feels her way with the rod before taking each step, laboring over her swollen ankle.

Even in the dark, it's easy to see how Vince and Jo were correct about any possible shred of evidence falling under the brutality of heavy machinery. The stretch of road is 100 feet of nothing. No pavement. No shoulder. No ditch. No dirt. It's like they dug a trench to install a swimming pool. Zandra pauses at the edge. She can't make out the bottom.

Must be at least 10 feet deep. Better not get too close.

Zandra leans on the rod, squeezes her eyes shut and falls into deep concentration. Or, rather, takes on the appearance of deep concentration. She's stumped, but Vince and Jo expect a performance regardless.

Even in the daytime, extracting anything approaching a clue would be difficult. There's no baseline for anything. It's much easier to work from a mental picture or history, then compare it against an observation. This is a cold reading like no other. It's a blind iceberg of a reading.

There's always a Plan B. Always. I could just make something up and hope it works out.

She thinks back to Herman's Six Reasons, and wonders how it might apply here. Her mind never stopped gnawing over what he told her in the hospital.

Not sure on that one. I don't need to hack my brain. I need something hard. Something tangible. Something I can hold in my hand.

So she tries the pulse method that worked so well back at the jail. She runs a series of statements through her mind, then compares them to her heartbeat's reaction. Her pulse rises and falls, but they all inevitably lead her to more dirt.