I hovered there on all fours for a moment, my breathing rapid and my eyes wide, trying to process where I was and what was real from what was imagined. Finally I was able to calm down and sit back up on the bed. Quickly, while the dream was still fresh in my mind, I grabbed my notebook from my purse and began to scribble the details of the dream. I knew I was in the right town, but where I was supposed to go within the city I felt was hidden in the dream.
The door was significant; that I was sure of. In this most recent version, my name had been across the front of the door. Why?
Just then I had a sudden urge to look at a city map. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but didn’t pause long enough to ration it out. I got up and went over to the dresser, where a stack of Corpus Christi guide information lay for my perusal. I sifted through the flyers from tourist hot spots, restaurants, room service menus, etc., until I found a detailed map of the city. I brought it back over to the bed and began to read off the names of the streets: “Williams Street, Comanche Street, Lipan Street, Cooper’s Alley . . .” I read aloud. “Holy cow!” I said as my eye zipped back to Cooper’s Alley. “Cooper’s Abby—Cooper’s Alley!” That was it! I needed to go there. I darted a look at the clock. Three thirty. I had to hurry.
Quickly I shuffled into my shoes and grabbed my purse, then darted out of the room, down the elevator and out to the front drive. I asked the bellhop for a cab, and he picked up a small phone, dialed a number and told me to wait inside, that one would be by shortly.
I waited only ten minutes, tipped him a five and got into the cab.
“Where to, miss?” the cabbie asked.
“Downtown,” I said, “to Cooper’s Alley.”
“What address on Cooper’s, miss?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get me there—pronto.”
Fifteen minutes later the cabbie dropped me at the corner of Cooper’s and Mesquite Street in downtown Corpus Christi. My intuition had begun to ring noisily, and it was hard for me to focus on anything but the humming sound buzzing through my mind. I looked west first, and felt my left side grow heavy. I turned east and began walking in the direction of the water. I didn’t know what I was looking for, so I just kept walking.
Around me the city bustled with energy. Corpus Christi is a beautiful place that hugs the warm waters of the Gulf Coast tightly in the southernmost tip of Texas. The streets are wide and warm; a gentle breeze continually blows off the water. The temperature was quite comfortable, hovering around seventy-four degrees. Cooper’s Alley is in the heart of the shopping district, and all around me were clothing stores, boutiques and souvenir shops. None of them held my attention.
While I walked down the bustling sidewalk, I became conscious of the fact that I had tucked my ponytail into my shirt and that I was walking with my head swiveling from side to side as I took note of my surroundings and the people who passed me. Ever since Cat had been attacked I’d been more careful when I was out and about. It dawned on me that Milo was now going it alone without my input, and just two days remained before Thursday—the next time the rapist would attack. I shivered involuntarily as I thought about what poor woman would become his next victim, but pushed that thought aside because I couldn’t do a thing right now to alter it. I reminded myself that if I didn’t find a way out of the mess I was in, there wouldn’t be much I could do to help the police find the rapist in time anyway.
After walking several blocks I came to a side street and crossed at the light. The moment I got across my left side began to feel heavy. I stopped midstride and thought for a moment, then turned around and crossed back across the street, heading west. Within seconds after reaching the corner my left side again felt heavy. I stopped again and looked back the way I’d come
. Okay . . . I’m supposed to stop somewhere around here,
I thought.
I walked back to the side street and looked up at the street sign, which read, WATER STREET. Something tickled my brain, and I reached into my purse and pulled out my notebook. I flipped through several pages and read the notes from the part of my dream when I’d been about to go through the door and J.R. had warned me about getting my feet wet. The puddle lay just in front of the door with my name. Yep, Water Street was where I was supposed to go. I turned the corner and began to head down the south side of Water Street, and suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks as I looked just up the street on the north side and saw a large painted sign hanging over a door that said, J.R.’s ANTIQUES.
Quickly I crossed over to the other side, intent on getting to J.R.’s. Just before I got there I stopped dead in my tracks again. Right next to the antique shop was an elaborately painted door frame, with stenciled vines and flowers snaking their way up the archway as they framed a brightly colored yellow door. I looked up at the sign above the doorway: BRISHKA’S TEAROOM scrawled its way in gold calligraphy just above my head.
I walked forward and opened the door, my sixth sense buzzing and snapping with excitement. Inside my nostrils were greeted by the most delicious scent. Something sweet and citrus was in the air. I looked around the room and took in the quaint scene.
The entire tearoom was painted a tranquil mint green that was soothing to the eye while two white ceiling fans spun from the ceiling, creating a gentle breeze and circulating the scent of citrus.
Within the main dining room to my left there were only four tables demurely set with wrought-iron chairs decorated in colorful pastel ribbons that zigzagged through the iron slots and matched the overstuffed cushions on each chair. The tabletops were white marble, and each held a tray of creamer, sugar and assorted sweeteners. Along one back wall was a bookcase lined with dozens of used books and a sign that read, TAKE ONE HOME; BRING ONE BACK, secured to the wall above it.
To my right a large display case filled with sumptuous-looking pastries tempted even the most hardened dieter. I moved over to the case and peered in. There were tarts, croissants, scones and cinnamon buns dripping in icing, and huge muffins of a dozen flavors. As I sniffed the air I could also smell a hint of yeast lingering on the breeze of the ceiling fans, no doubt the scent coming from baking done earlier that day.
To the left of the display case sat a giant urn and a chalkboard that listed the prices for the delicacies in the case. As I scanned the chalkboard, my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten a thing in almost two days.
Just then a tall, thin woman with silver-blond hair emerged from behind a curtain, which led, I guessed, to the kitchen and baking ovens in the back. She was startled to see me, and her hand came up to her chest when she gasped and said, “Oh, my! I’m sorry; I didn’t know anyone had come in. Have you been waiting long?”
I smiled at her, liking her energy. “No, not at all. I’m really hungry, though. Can I order something?”
“Of course,” she said, and waved me closer to the display case. I ordered a cinnamon scone and a blueberry muffin. I figured I deserved a carbo load.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Yeah, can you tell me what that amazing smell is?” I asked, taking an extra big whiff.
The woman smiled and laughed. “That’s our special home-brewed tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Yes, please.”
“And would you like that with a reading?”
I paused, cocking my head as my intuition went haywire. Had I just heard her ask me what I thought she’d asked me?
Right side, light, airy feeling!
my intuition urged. “Uh, sure, throw that in too.”
“Okay. It’s good you got here when you did. Brishka was just about to go home for the night. You can have a seat anywhere, and when you’ve finished your tea I’ll send her out for your reading, okay?”
I nodded, just a little mystified, and took a cup of the steaming liquid and my pastries over to a table, where I quickly sat down. I took a sip of the slightly orange-brown liquid and rolled my eyes up into my head—it was that good.
The tea was sweet and citrusy, yet light and smooth. I drank it and tried not to make too much of a display as I wolfed down the scone and the muffin, wondering what this Brishka woman was all about.
I’d been read several times in my life by other psychics, but I didn’t tend to seek them out. Typically other psychics would come to me and ask for a trade, and it was always fun to compare styles and information.
Kendal was by far the best psychic I’d ever come across, and because I’d encountered him early in my career, he’d been the bar against which I measured everyone else—including myself. I wondered where Brishka would fall, and at the same time I wondered why my guides had led me to her.
Conscious of the fact that Brishka was about to leave, I swallowed the rest of my tea and took the cup over to the woman at the counter, who smiled kindly and gave me a glass of water, instructing me to go back to the table while she got Brishka.
I waited only a few moments before the curtain parted and out stepped a plump woman about my height, with piles of long, curly hair and huge brown eyes. Her skin was dark and tanned, and her clothing slightly wild. She was purple from head to toe: Purple earrings dangled from her ears, purple lipstick covered her mouth, a purple cotton shirt gripped her round body like a second skin, and a long, flowing purple prairie skirt swished about her as she strode purposely over to me, holding my teacup in her hand.
I guessed her to be in her late fifties to early sixties, but she’d held herself together quite well. Her cheeks were soft but unlined, her jaw strong and square, her lips full and pensive. There was an energy about her that was powerful, and for a moment I let my eyes go unfocused and looked at the space just above her head. Her aura came quickly into view, and I knew immediately this woman was quite gifted.
She came to the table and thrust her hand forward. “Hello,” she said in a thick Slavic accent, “I am Brishka.”
“Abby,” I said as I shook her hand, waiting for her to take the lead. Brishka sat down and nodded at me, then closed her eyes for the briefest moment, and snapped them open to peer into my teacup.
“So . . .” she began, “you also have da sight.”
I let my eyebrows dance up twice in a conspiratorial fashion, which caused Brishka to smile back as she continued. “You are visiting us from far avay, no?”
I nodded.
“You come from da Nort, no?”
I nodded again.
Brishka closed her eyes, sorting through the messages. “Do you know Andrew?” she asked me, and I felt a chill go through my bones.
“Yes,” I said. I knew she had picked up on Andros.
“He is very bad man,” she said as she looked at me. “Is dis your boyfriend?”
“No.” I answered.
“Vell, you need to stay avay from dis Andrew. He’s a bad man.”
I nodded.
“Besides, dere is anoter man you like. A blonde—he is from Europe, no?”
I smiled. Dutch wasn’t from Europe, but his nickname definitely connected him.
“He has a dangerous job, dough; he is policeman, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You need to tell dis man from Europe to be very careful. Dere is something between him and dis Andrew here, and it is not good. I tink dis Andrew is jealous of dis man from Europe, and he’s up to no good.”
Goose bumps lined my arms, and I involuntarily shivered. Brishka looked at me sternly and said, “You go to funeral soon. Very sad for you, but you vill remember life goes on.”
I sat back in my chair and my eyes grew wide. “Whose funeral?” I asked urgently.
“Is a man you know. He took chance and lost. But life goes on . . .” Brishka said matter-of-factly.
I was still chewing on that when she continued as if she’d just informed me that there was a cold front moving in and I’d need a sweater. “You look for new house, no?” she asked me.
I wasn’t prepared for that, and my expression became tight as I fought to control my emotions. I’d done my best not to think about the fire, and unexpectedly, here it was again. After a moment I said, “Yes. Yes, I think I might be.”
“Good. Your last place was crap. Dis next home vill be good. Less vork, more fun. You vait; you see.”
I nodded.
“So, vat questions you have for me?”
I looked at her and considered my question for a long, tense moment before I finally asked, “How is it, Madame Jarosolov, that you managed to get away from Andros Kapordelis without losing your life?”
Chapter Sixteen
Madame Jarosolov’s reaction was not one I had anticipated. After the briefest stunned silence between us she jumped up with such force that she knocked over the chair and nearly toppled the table behind her. She reeled away from me, spinning and scrambling her way backward toward the counter. From the back came the woman who had worked the counter, who rushed out to see what all the commotion was about. I had already jumped up and now stood statue still, watching as Madame J’s mouth opened and closed, and her hand clutched at her chest, her breathing coming in great gulps as she fought her way back to the counter.
“Brishka!” the first woman shouted as she reached Madame J. “Brishka! What is it? Tell me! What has happened?”
Madame J pointed to me, her eyes wide and horrified as she said, “Her! She’s come to kill us! Andros has sent her!”
The first woman looked at me, and her complexion went stark white as her eyes went blank with something akin to acceptance. “Is that true?” she asked me hoarsely.
I continued to stand very still; any sudden movement could alarm these women even more, and I didn’t want to do any more damage. “Absolutely not,” I said in a cool, measured tone.
Madame J clutched at the other woman, sobs now choking her throat as fear blocked her ability to be rational. “She’s going to kill us!” she wailed.
“Did Andros send you?” the other woman asked, hugging Madame J protectively.