Chapter Eight #2
“Call 911!” Mel yelled. She climbed out of her car and the older woman ran into her trailer.
Mel watched as first smoke, then flames billowed out from under her RV.
She could hear the smoke alarm going off now, but the smoke was so dense and thick in there that, if that cell phone call hadn’t woken her up, that alarm might have been too late.
The thought made her knees weak. It had been only moments. But it only took moments.
The Colemans, who normally had their RV on the site next to hers, were off in New Mexico somewhere. Hers was the last site on that side. Only trees and the tiny lake beyond. Nothing else was in danger, except her little carport.
There was a pop and all the windows of her RV blew out.
A few seconds later, an explosion pushed her against her car, followed by a dozen car alarms going off throughout the park.
Flames shot into the air, and there was a sound like some wounded animal bellowing as pieces of roof and sides rained down on the street.
Mel rubbed her ringing ears and wondered if her hearing would recover. She could hear the sirens on the highway, so that was something. Mr. Beesom, the park owner, came barreling around the corner in his pickup and screeched to a halt at a safe distance.
Actually, not hearing would have been a relief at the moment.
She wished she couldn’t hear that dreadful noise the RV made as it died.
It must have been the propane venting or something.
Mel picked some smoking debris out of Mrs. Crumpski’s neat postage-stamp yard and threw it across the street into her own ruined flowers.
Her carport was canting sideways now, the supports on one side buckled by the explosion.
The wind chimes on the other side and out in her miniscule garden were singing wildly, tossed and battered by the heat-driven wind swirling up from the fire.
Her home would be ashes before the fire department even got here, but at least she was alive.
She lowered herself down to sit next to her Mini, patting the fender as she watched the fire consume just about everything she owned. Rubbing her other hand across her face, she realized that she was crying.
Mel looked around anxiously. Mrs. Crumpski was sobbing on her porch, her hands over her face. Mr. Beesom, who had walked to the edge of Mrs. Crumpski’s yard, was wiping his eyes with a red bandana.
There was nothing she could do about it. In a minute, she would cheer herself up and everyone here would be fine. For now, they could join her in mourning.
But as the fire truck turned down the street, she imagined the firemen being affected as well, sobbing “Oh, the humanity!” and “Why, God, why?” while they gazed at her melting cookware. The absurdity of the thought made her smile. She tried to hang on to that emotion while holding her pendant.
At least the RV had stopped making that agonizing death wail and accepted its fate.
Mel pushed herself to her feet, dusting off her clothes and wiping the tears from her face as the fire truck, followed by the paramedics, pulled up and added their own clamor to the general uproar.
As one of the paramedics spotted her and came over, it finally struck her: That phone call saved my life.
Forcing a watery smile at the intent young man, she hoped the person who called her had left a message. But part of her, the part trained to smell a story, was sure it was Daniel.
“Damn! It’s still going straight to voicemail,” Daniel put the phone down on the counter more forcefully than necessary.
“I’m sure she’s fine. It was ringing at first. She may have gotten another call or called someone else.
” Grace had helped Daniel down the back stairs and into the kitchen.
He heard a plate being placed on the counter in front of him, then she pushed a mug until it hit his fingers.
He could smell one of Ouida’s cinnamon-apple muffins right under his nose.
He cringed because he was still nauseated.
Thankfully, his stomach was very empty. The way Grace tended to him reminded him of how Mel had dealt with his disabling headaches, without a lot of fuss, just offering what they thought he needed.
“Nick will find out what’s going on soon enough. ”
“I know. She’s probably just on the phone,” he repeated. If he said it often enough, he might believe it. He picked up the mug and sipped, then snorted as he tasted tea instead of coffee, and what was worse, herbal tea. “I need coffee, sis. My head—”
“This is for your head,” Grace said.
“The extract doesn’t make a dent in the headaches anymore,” Daniel said.
Nick had only been mildly surprised that Daniel knew about the four phone numbers in his shirt pocket. After that, Nick had disappeared into his office to reach out to his contacts, leaving Daniel to grapple with his aching head and wonky vision.
The kitchen was finally beginning to come into focus. Grace was wearing the T-shirt with the cute slogan he had seen in his dream. He smiled. “Motherhood looks good on you, sis.” He extended his fingers to hover over her stomach.
“Here you go, Danny.” Ouida’s cheery voice sounded from the hallway.
“I noticed some of our lady guests out there falling over chairs to get a better look at you through the window.” Ouida came over, holding out a soft flannel shirt.
He’d come downstairs in his pajama bottoms and nothing else.
“I unpacked all the dirty clothes from your trip,” she added. “I’m washing today.”
“Someday, woman, I will marry you.” Daniel flinched at Ouida’s peck on his cheek. Damn. He could not live his life worried about every random touch setting off another vision rollercoaster.
“You should be so lucky,” Ouida said as he shrugged into the shirt.
He squinted at the light coming in the windows. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Noonish,” Grace said. “So the prazosin didn’t help with the dreams and the herbal extract isn’t helping with your headaches?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “The headaches are worse. They’re affecting my eyes. I have trouble focusing. Sunlight hurts. And the more I…see, the worse it gets.” He extended the mug to her. “Can I have some coffee now?”
She sighed and took the mug out of his hand. “May as well. Apparently this concoction is useless for what’s going on in your head.” She poured out the mug and refilled it with coffee, putting it on the counter next to his hand. “What does that mean, the more you see?”
“I don’t just have those dreams anymore,” he said. “I have visions about the future of complete strangers when I touch them.”
“What? How long has this been going on?”
She was silent. Waiting.
Daniel took a big gulp of coffee. “Remember at Christmas, when I told you about Nick following me up the mountain road?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“Well, you took my hand and”—he looked at her shirt pointedly—“I got a preview of you telling Nick about that imp you’re gestating.”
Grace’s eyes went wide and her hand went to her stomach, then she frowned. “You saw—?”
“I also saw Nick’s expression when you told him about Lily,” Daniel said.
“And you kept this to yourself?”
He shrugged. “It was a one-off weird thing at the time, and you did have other things on your mind.”
She folded her arms. “Okay, but it obviously wasn’t a one-off thing, was it?”
He took another long sip of his coffee. “Guess not. And when Francesca shook my hand after my lecture in Bologna, it happened again.”
“This was the woman who was supposed to be on the train?”
He nodded. “I saw the train wreck from her perspective.”
“Any more?”
“Oh yes.” He held out his mug.
She pushed the carafe over to him. “How many?”
He frowned, trying to remember. “Another one with Francesca, trying to get more details.” He felt his face go hot remembering the one with Mel at the café. “And, uh, a couple with Mel. And one with the mugger that attacked us in Florence.”
“Wait, what?”
“Long story. A couple of muggers tried to steal Mel’s backpack. We managed to scare them off, but one of them grabbed me and I saw something from his future, I guess.”
“Muggers,” Grace repeated.
“Yeah. Long story. Then there were two more with Francesca before managed to keep her off the train.”
“I’m surprised you were still on your feet after all that.”
“Well, I drank way too much prosecco trying to dial back the pain.” He held up his hand. “I know. Not the best approach, but I didn’t have anything else.”
Grace shook her head.
This is my Reverse Sleeping Beauty. Or did he? What had Mel done to him?
“So, it’s not just dreams anymore,” Grace said thoughtfully.
“Pretty much.”
“And you get the headaches every time?”
He nodded. “Since Diana.” He had told Grace about Diana Morgan, long ago.
“And is the pain staying the same, getting worse, getting—"
“Getting worse. Every time.” He rubbed at his temple. “If it weren’t for you telling me there’s nothing physical—”
“I am not a walking CT or MRI, Daniel. And where there are these kind of symptoms…” She shook her head. “The brain is a very delicate instrument. Certainly, I wouldn’t expect your gift to cause damage, but—”
“Gift.” He laughed. “Come on. It’s not a gift. It’s a damn curse.” Daniel clenched his hand on the counter and looked up. Maybe it was finally time to tell her. “I couldn’t save Pops.”
Her hand went over her mouth. “Pops?”
“I found his… Him. In a dream, anyway. It wasn’t Jake who followed Pooka to him. It was me. I was the one who found…his body…up there at the bottom of those rocks…” His voice betrayed him, and he took a long gulp of coffee.
Grace’s eyes were wide and full of tears.
“So I called Pops and told him not to go anywhere near that part of the mountain. He swore he wouldn’t. And I told him to take his walking stick whenever he did go out. In my dream, we couldn’t find his walking stick. I thought it would help. I thought the changes would help.” He drained his mug.
“Oh, Daniel.”