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

Chapter 19

Zandra mulls over what to make of the description of the man Liv provided as she climbs into the backseat of the Jeep. It's a literal climb for her, given her bad ankle and the Jeep's clearance.

She might've been bullshitting me when she told me about this guy's scars. Take the position of the scars on the face with a grain of salt, but boil it down to one thing. The guy has a messed up face.

"It's pay day," Zandra says and flashes the cash. "In more ways than one, too. Got a description of the guy Julia was with at the Eagle."

Vince guides the Jeep away from the Eagle. His eyes look wide in the rear view mirror. "You really are the best."

"That's why you found me in a jail cell," Zandra says.

Jo takes out a pad of paper and a pen from the glove compartment and says, "What's he look like?"

"Guy had scarring on his face that was bad enough to be memorable," Zandra says. She leaves out the bit about the scars being on the forehead and side of the face.

Always leave a trapdoor, just in case you're wrong. Better to get there with 90 percent accuracy than 100 if the end is the same anyway. A little wiggle room frees up mental space for later. Psychic Bullshit 101. Class dismissed.

Jo's pen hangs limp from her fingers. She says, "That it?"

"That's all I got for now," Zandra says.

"I thought you were a psychic," Jo says.

Believe it or not, this isn't the first time someone's called me out like that.

"I work with energies, auras, impressions and various space-time phenomena. Obviously, it's not an exact science," Zandra says. Then, a little more irritated, "Are we not impressed that I got the restaurant right? If I'm not good enough for you, pull over and I'll waddle my ass back to the jail cell."

"No need to get defensive. We have be open with each other if this is going to work," Vince says from the driver's seat, looking in the mirror at Zandra. He doesn't look long enough for her to gauge his expression. There's no question it was directed at her, though.

What is the deal with these two?

Jo persists, saying, "Who gave you the money? Or did you take it?"

Honor in politics isn't dead after all. Too bad I can't say the same for psychics.

"I found it," Zandra says. She waits a beat. "Can we get back to this guy with the messed up face?"

Vince pulls the Jeep over in a parking lot of a fast food restaurant open 24 hours. There are plenty of cars around. They won't attract too much attention.

"I need a little pick-me-up if we're going to pull 72 straight hours of cat herding," Vince says. He digs in his pocket for what Zandra assumes is cash. "The trick is to time it right. Stagger it out so you're always in the zone. Not too high. Not too low."

"Blood sugar?" Zandra says.

"No," Vince says. He pulls out a small, black bottle and taps a tablet onto his palm. The bottle delivers one to Jo's outstretched hand, too. "Pep pills."

They down the pills dry. Vince plucks a tablet and passes it back to Zandra. She hesitates.

Pep pills?

The term is relatively recent, but the concept is not. Military tours can be exhausting, either from sheer boredom or incredible stretches of physical and mental stress. Pep pills, and their equivalents throughout history, keep people alert and alive. That is, for the ones using them. Those on the receiving side of the effects tend to disagree.

The habit can be hard to kick, because the innocent "pep pill" moniker is a smoke screen for what these tablets really are: amphetamine.

Pharmacies don't usually distribute medicine in black bottles. When they dish dope, they do it in orange or white bottles with fancy names like Adderall on the label. Half the planet is on dope. The other half is pretending like it's not.

I need a cigarette.

"No thanks," Zandra says and waves Vince's offer off.

"Don't like taking them dry? We've got water bottles," Vince says, his hand remaining in position.

"I said no," Zandra says. "Could go for some smokes, though."

Vince shrugs and rolls the tablet back into the bottle. Jo hunches over to stuff the notepad back into the glove compartment, adjusting the pistol in the waistband holster after leaning back.

Firearms, amphetamines, a murder mystery, corrupt politicians and a bad nicotine itch. What could go wrong?

Plenty, as it turns out.

"Shit, shit, shit," Jo says as the flashing lights bounce off the side mirror of the Jeep. Her voice sounds different. She's not as stoic.

Zandra turns to see a squad car pull up from behind.

Stevens Point's finest.

"We do not need this," Vince says. "You think they're here for someone else?"

But there's no question it's there for them. The squad car is inches from the Jeep's rear bumper.

Stay calm. Focus on breathing. Take it all in through the eyes and the ears. Don't make a peep. If there really is such a thing as auras and all that bullshit, let it be right now. Let it start with me and fill this entire Jeep.

Besides, it's not like the police are going to pop anyone in a fast food parking lot. No, they'd take us somewhere else first. Then they'd kill us.

Comforting.

For a few seconds, Zandra's composure seems to spread to her companions. It doesn't last long enough. They all seem to come to the same realization at the same time. It shows in their faces.

One wrong move, and we're fucked.

Not everyone is willing to walk that tightrope, though. One in particular would rather jump right off than balance bullshit on a wire.

"Don't do it," Zandra says as she watches Jo's hand tug the pistol free from the holster.

But, as a police officer exits the squad car, she does.