How can an old lady just vanish in her own hometown? And why? Police ask a reclusive psychic and her reformed young assistant to unearth clues through visions and investigation. They must ask themselves what in the woman's past needed silencing...
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Nana. Get up, Nana. Daddy might hurt you if you're laying down, whispered the tiny voice in DeeDee's head. All she could make out in the darkened room was a pair of luminous eyes. Sweaty hands slapped her face. Nana. Nana. It was a hoarse scritching now. Her stomach churned. DeeDee felt like purging her breakfast. Her breath caught in her chest increased her anxiety. Please wake up. If Daddy catches you...
I can't, child, DeeDee wanted to say. To explain the dizziness; the nausea. How to explain when I have no voice? She was caught in this dream that wasn't a dream.
There was a sudden decompression of the air like a window had been flung open and a strong gust of wind sucked the air through the room by sheer force. A door slammed. The walls she couldn't quite see shuddered.
"Uh-oh, Daddy's coming," said the quivering voice. Sh-sh. A small index finger touched DeeDee's dry lips. A crack of light shot under the door into the dimness. DeeDee could survey the room through her discomfort. Sad cabbage-rose curtains hung from a flimsy rod. The bed was lumpy and covered with a frayed quilt and a mass of wrinkled clothes. The floor was covered with old shingles? What? No. Books. In the distance, DeeDee heard bottles clatter. The clink of ice in a glass was followed by the slamming of cupboard doors. Then an announcer's voice droned on about kitchen utensils. Or was it exercise equipment? Then religion? DeeDee had trouble following the voice. Her head pounded and she closed her eyes. She drifted letting the chubby hands and the Cheerio-breath sooth her into a fitful sleep. Sh-sh. Always stay here with me, Nana. Promise?
*
It only took JC twenty minutes to walk the airless streets that afternoon. I must be insane, she thought, then shrugged it off as she propped herself in the crook of a tree trunk in front of Nine McDonnell.She felt like one of the groupies that loitered across from the Burgermeister house. Not in this heat though.
Number Eleven looked cool and still in the 1:30 glare. Heat caught in JC's throat. She swiped at the back of her neck with a hand. Raised her eyes to the tree canopy overhead. Not a leaf moved. She squinted at the draped windows, the battered front door, the mangy blades of grass sprouting around crumbling concrete and pavement. This house had none of the make-pretty touches that made its neighbours into homes. The carport slapped onto one side looked like it was pulling away from the grey roof to distance itself. An abused blue sedan huddled in the dimness, half-covered with a tattered car-cover. Can't see the plates.Gotta get closer. She shifted to the next tree. In front of number 12. Not gonna do.
JC tried to muffle the slap-slap of her flip-flops as she edged over the curb. She shoulder-checked. When she crossed the mid-point – the center of the sun-drenched, patched asphalt, she felt exposed. Sun prickled her shoulders. Baked the top of her head. She held her breath as she closed in on the vehicle. Can't quite see...
The brackets hung empty. Damn. No plates. Disappointment welled up in her chest as she crossed the sidewalk and stood frozen in a pothole on the shabby driveway. Suddenly a screen door squealed from the shaded carport. JC turned. Bottles rattled. She could feel her body sway in the heat. Sweat trickled from her armpits. Her eyes glued to the figure of a man – tall, lean, limping. He wore dirty, tan pants with one ripped knee. His feet clumsy in worn sandals. Despite the heat, he was encased in a grimy camping shirt. And his hair was long and unwashed. JC locked on his eyes, grateful for the sunglasses that protected her from his fury. His were red-rimmed and heavily veined.
