Amanda's Story (24 page)

“Excuse me; I can hear you,” Amanda said from the other side of Lisa's Explorer.

“Okay, we'll behave.” He grabbed a few of the grocery bags from the SUV and turned to find Joe Thomas with an expectant look on his face. “Later,” he mouthed.

“Hi, boss,” Andy Neiman said, coming down the steps of their house. Andy was the youngest and newest detective in the fourteen-man squad, and Joe Thomas's partner. “Mrs. Flynn, let me take those.” Lisa was the den mother for the unit.

“Andy, if you call me Mrs. Flynn one more time, or anything other than Lisa, I will take my husband's gun and beat you with it.”

“Yes, Lisa,” he said, beating his retreat into the house.

The schlepping continued until the Explorer was empty. The women were back in the house and Greg found himself alone with his two detectives.

“So what happened?” Joe asked anxiously.

“Nothing happened. What is going to happen is that John Eden goes home.” Greg's dark mood returned, and he slammed the Explorer's trunk closed.

“They're not even going to arraign him?” Andy asked.

“No. Garner thinks that if we push this we'll lose him forever.” Greg watched as their heads dropped. Thomas kicked a stone into the street.

“I'm sorry Greg; this is all my fault,” Joe said.

“Yes it is,” Greg answered. Joe was a veteran officer, fifteen years as a detective, and he had made a rookie mistake.

“She made it sound like it was their storage locker. She had a key.” He offered weakly.

“It was your job to check, and not to be taken in by some penny-ante hustler and his bimbo wife.” Greg fired back. Andy looked up as his new boss displayed a side rarely seen.

“I will make this right, Greg,” Joe said resolutely.

“I know you will, but not tonight. We will not discuss this until tomorrow. Tonight we have fun, drink beer, tell jokes, and act normally. Our screw-up will not affect this evening. Got it?”

Both officers nodded their heads.

“Tomorrow we start again, and the two of you will find a way to put Eden and his lying wife away for a very long time.” Once again they nodded their agreement.

“Now, let's go have some fun,” Greg ordered.

The thoughts racing through Greg's mind were clearer than his terse words. Amanda was dressing in the bedroom that she had shared with her aunt. Emily loved the fresh air and routinely left the window open, allowing the cool air to circulate. Except this evening the cool air carried Greg's private conversation. It was an odd situation, but Amanda was more uncomfortable with her unintentional eavesdropping than she was with her mental forays that violated every norm of civility. She heard them conclude their conversation and waited for Greg to follow Joe and Andy back into the house, but he lingered by Lisa's SUV. His emotions seemed to carry his thoughts further and they teased her.

Amanda saw a tall, attractive blonde woman's face, and attached to it were feelings of regret and anger. Amanda had rarely seen Greg angry, and the image intrigued her. She listened a little closer and his thoughts streamed to her as if they were looking for a receptive audience. The woman, a prosecuting attorney, had told Greg that any chance of convicting someone named John Eden had been lost. An image of a smiling middle-aged man flashed through her mind like an internet hyperlink. Eden was a forty-one year old financial advisor specializing in complex art and real estate investments; at least, that's what he told his marks. In reality he was a con man. At one point in his life he had been legitimate; he had a degree in psychology from Cornell and worked for Merrill Lynch for eight years. After learning the system, and how to beat it, he drifted over to and finally embraced the dark side. He preyed upon middle-income retirees. He was cunning, never going for the whole nest egg, just a nibble. He would take just enough to sting his marks but not enough to make them cry foul too loudly. His was a volume business. Everything was going well until he met Ethel Idle. She was in her eighties, a little older than Eden's typical targets, but she seemed so eager to hand over her money that he thought it would be a crime not to take it. For twenty-nine thousand dollars, she purchased a one percent share of a theme park that was undergoing construction in North Denver. Eden had sold the same one percent to three other people, and what each had purchased was twelve square feet of landfill that was already mortgaged to a bank. When the principal investors suddenly pulled out, “the deal” fell apart and the bank moved in, leaving Edith Idle with a heartfelt apology and a tax deduction for a failed investment. Eden had recommended that Mrs. Idle get legal representation before investing, and he even offered to personally drive her up to Denver so she could review the project in person. As he had expected, she declined on both accounts, so the fault was her own. Only, her son didn't see it that way. Larry Idle began an escalating campaign of phone calls, e-mails, and letters that gave him no satisfaction, so he finally sued Eden Investments. Exactly seven days later, a cleaning crew heard a loud bang from Larry Idle's office and they found him dying from a bullet wound to the chest. A dark-haired man was seen running from the building.

Amanda slipped the light-blue sundress over her shoulders and it dropped perfectly to just below her knees. Lisa had taken it upon herself to supplement Amanda's wardrobe. “Good job, Lisa,” Amanda said to the mirror. She turned to slip into her new pair of summer shoes when she heard Greg slam the mail box closed. An image of a man slumped over a desk forced its way into her mind, and her unruly adolescent began to prowl through its deep recesses. Suddenly she was reminded of her childhood dog, a yellow mongrel that would creep through their small house, sniffing every corner and dark place for a forgotten morsel or the occasional rodent. “Mittens,” she said out loud, and realized that she hadn't thought of her for years. “It's as good name as any,” she whispered.

“Amanda,” Emily called out. Her aunt had fallen back into her old pattern of regulating even the most mundane aspects of Amanda's life, and she had obviously taken too much time getting ready.

“I'll be out in a minute,” she called back. It took less than that to navigate to the kitchen, which was now filled beyond capacity. A couple of wolf whistles announced her arrival, and everyone applauded her new look. “I can't take all the credit,” she glammed. “Lisa did buy the dress.”

“Let's move this party outside please,” Lisa cried out from deep in the depths of her kitchen, and the crowd slowly began to disperse into the backyard. Amanda followed and wound up trailing Joe Thomas out the door.

“Hi, Amanda,” he said, his voice full of forced enthusiasm.

“Hi, Joe.” She let a few other guests squeeze by her and then turned back to Joe. “I heard you guys out in the drive way,” she said sheepishly.

He stiffened. “I am under orders not to discuss that. We are to have a good time,” he said, miming a robot.

“Let me know how that works out for you. Are you in trouble?”

He tipped his head to the side in a gesture that said “sort of.”

“Do you think you can get this guy?”

A flood of emotions poured out of Joe. “We have to. This guy and his wife are real pieces of work. They've been scamming people for years in three different states, and now he's moved on to murder. If he gets away with this, they'll disappear and set up shop somewhere else, and God knows what they'll do, but whatever it is I'll be responsible.” He sipped his warm beer as Amanda drifted through his mind.

Joe had spent four months meticulously piecing together a case against Eden only to be tripped up at the finish line. He had interviewed Abby Eden two days earlier, just as the noose was tightening around her husband. His car had been spotted by a traffic camera two blocks away from Larry Idle's office minutes before the murder; he fit the general description of the man fleeing the scene; and his alibi—that he was in a mall, shopping for his wife's birthday—was shaky at best. He had retained a lawyer and refused any further questioning. His wife, however, graciously made herself available for Joe. She confessed to having concerns about her husband's stability, and when asked if she thought he was capable of murder she gave the detective a rather unconvincing answer of “no.” Sensing that he was making progress, Joe pressed her for any possible information that might shed some light on her husband's dispute with Idle, at which point she informed him of the storage locker. He asked if she would let him see it and she said, “Sure, why not?” Five minutes into his exploration, Joe found a handgun that later proved to be the murder weapon. John Eden was arrested and charged with the murder of Larry Idle. Hours later, Eden's lawyer presented Greg Flynn with documents proving that Eden Financial had rented the storage locker, that Eden Financial existed prior to the marriage of John and Abby, and that Abby had no ownership and therefore no right to access the storage locker. He concluded his presentation with the statement that Abby had in fact been trespassing on Eden Financial property, but they would not, at this time, be pursuing charges against her or the officers involved.

“I think maybe I'll mingle a little,” Joe said as he spied a scowling Greg Flynn walking down the patio steps with a large platter of uncooked steaks.

Hours later, after all the guests had left and with Emily snoring away in bed, Amanda sidled up to a somewhat tipsy Greg as he ineffectively brushed the grill.

“Hi sweetheart. Did you have a good time?” He reached around her waist and pulled her close to his side. Amanda was surprised by how good it felt, like being home after a long absence.

“I did.” She cuddled into him. “I heard you and the guys out in the driveway earlier.”

“You did?” he said, surprise and a little concern flashing across his face.

“Yep. Aunt Emily leaves the bedroom window open and you were talking just outside it.”

“Well, so much for my powers of detection. If the chief hears that I'll get canned for sure.”

“Are you in hot water?”

“Hmm. I've swum in hotter waters.” He scraped the wire brush on the grill's rack.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You being here is all the help I need.” He squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head.

“Are you going to catch this guy?”

“In twenty-four … twenty-three years? I think maybe I've had a few too many of these,” he said, taking a long draw from his beer. “But the point is,” he slurred happily, “I have never seen a perfect crime. And this sure is not gonna be the first. Imagine: the guy drives a red Porsche 911 with personalized plates, MK MNY, to a murder. He should be arrested on the grounds of extreme stupidity.”

“Maybe it was his first, or he didn't read the manual all that well.”

“Well, it's going to be his last if I have anything to say about it.”

“What do you need to get him?”

“Well, look who's suddenly become all curious.” He shook her a little.

“You know, idle mind, nothing to do.”

Greg looked down at Amanda. “Idle,” he said, and then went back to the grill. “Well, in your spare time if you stumble across a videotape confession let me know, or if you get his lying wife to grow a conscience.” He teetered a bit and she had to steady him for an instant. “Let's keep this between us. Lisa hates this kind of stuff.”

It wasn't hard to find the address of John and Abby Eden. With a little magic—and the requisite internet skills—it was available to anyone. It was also listed in the phone book; that fact tempered some of Amanda's pride in her internet coup. The Edens' home overlooked the Broadmoor Resort, The Springs' only five-star hotel. Their house was perched on a ledge high above the foothills, and Amanda could only imagine their view. They lived in a guarded, gated community that for a week had been covered by the local and regional media. Murder was a big thing in Colorado Springs, and the press was squeezing everything out of this one. Under the pretense of finding a new home, Amanda drove her new Jeep Grand Cherokee through the neighborhood looking for any opportunity, but none presented itself. She even spent an afternoon touring the area with a realtor, who unfortunately could not broach the Edens' defenses any better than she could. It also wasn't the kind of neighborhood that would allow someone to simply park and wait, and it was completely impractical to keep circling the six-block perimeter until Eden or his wife ran down to the market.

After a week, John Eden came out of seclusion and returned to work. The media followed, and for another week anyone approaching or exiting the two-story Eden Financial Building found a microphone in their face. Once again, Amanda circled in her new SUV, searching for a way in until she was stopped by a patrol car and politely told to move on. After nearly two weeks, she was losing faith in her clandestine skills.

“Did you find anything?” Lisa asked Amanda at dinner.

She slowly turned to face Lisa, confused by the question. She had been quietly sifting through Greg's memory of the case and had come upon a possible opening. In the two weeks since Eden's release, Greg and his detectives had found nothing of real consequence, just more details of the couple's lives, one of which intrigued Amanda. Abby Eden had a standing monthly appointment with a therapist.

“Nothing yet. I was thinking that maybe I would rent awhile instead.”

“I think that's a good idea,” Greg said as he nosily slurped a long string of spaghetti into his mouth. Her husband used to do that very same thing, and her heart was suddenly stabbed with a deep sense of loss.

“What's wrong, dear?” Lisa said. Amanda was starting to worry that the Flynns were gaining too much access to her inner thoughts. Lisa was especially tuned into Amanda's emotional state. Her empathic connection was without a doubt a two-way street. Even when Amanda quietly, gently explored the mind of another, she left something of herself behind, and a faint but discernible trail back to her own mind. Lisa's subconscious was learning how to follow that bread-crumb trail back to Amanda.

“Michael used to do that,” she said, nodding towards Greg, who had a noodle halfway down his chin. Silence hung in the air for a long second. “Please don't be uncomfortable. It was one of the things that I loved about him. Now I know where it came from.” She smiled with a touch of pain back at Greg.

“Well, then, I shall do it proudly,” he said, and he loudly slurped the rest of his noodle. Greg was a good deal like Colonel Bennett, a concept that suddenly made her uncomfortable. His thoughts were organized, disciplined, and ruled by a deep-seated, simple morality. Each time she ventured into his mind, or anyone's for that matter, she unintentionally took something back. More often than not, for a time after an encounter her thoughts and attitudes seemed to align with her subject, and then their influence would slowly fade away. It wasn't much different from adopting the accent of a long-time companion. With Greg, it was always his discipline and organization that followed her home.

“I was thinking about perhaps going to talk to someone about all that's happened,” she said after the silence had stretched comfortably.

Greg and Lisa exchanged a glance. “I think that's a good idea, Amanda,” Lisa said slowly. “Is there something that changed your mind?”

“Not really. I've had a lot of alone time and was thinking that maybe a different perspective wouldn't be such a bad thing. I found some information on a therapist called Christi Bates.”

Greg's eyes widened and he coughed. “I'm sorry; did you say Christi Bates?”

“You know her?” Lisa asked with surprise.

“No, I don't know her. It's a work thing,” he answered rather abruptly. “How's the new car working out?”

“Fine,” Amanda answered.

“I can't remember when we last bought a new car,” he said to his bowl of spaghetti.

“We have an opening on Tuesday the thirteenth at two o'clock. Will that work for you?” The receptionist at Christi Bates's office was overly solicitous after a little mental persuasion, courtesy of Amanda.

“Skye, how about two o'clock today,” Amanda asked and instructed. “I don't mind waiting, so it's okay to double-book the appointment.” She was starting to feel a little like Obi-Wan Kenobi of Star Wars and half expected the young girl to repeat her statement in a disembodied voice.

“Well, in that case I will.” Skye bobbed her head and her pony-tail swished without any influence from Amanda. “Would you like to wait or come back in an hour?” Her smile was broad enough to cause permanent facial damage.

“Why don't I just sit and wait?”

“That would be wonderful. Can I get you anything?”

“No, nothing,” Amanda said, and she eased away from the desk and out of Skye's mind. She chose a seat by the door and watched as Skye began to reorient herself. She shuffled papers randomly and then began to rifle through the desk drawers as if she were looking for something that had been lost. Skye was basically a helpful individual and didn't need that much direction to do what came naturally. Amanda had to only lightly steer her around the obstacles that she was paid to erect when faced with walk-in patients without a referral. Amanda was beginning to worry about the poor girl when the door opened and Abby Eden walked in.

“Hello, Mrs. Eden. You're right on time.” Skye flashed her toothy smile again, making Amanda wonder if she had guided the poor girl at all.

“Hello, Skye, I'm just here for a quick visit.” She crossed the office threshold quickly and then signed in. She turned and for a moment seemed startled to find someone else in the waiting room. For an instant her face registered annoyance, then she politely nodded at Amanda and chose a seat as far from her as possible. After a moment's hesitation she sat without taking off her long black cashmere walking coat; it was at least a size too large and much more coat than the weather called for. An oversized pair of dark sunglasses was pushed up into her streaked hair, and she pretended to busy herself inside the red and black purse that matched both her shoes and coat. Amanda watched Abby's reflection in the window behind Skye and was mildly surprised to see how different she looked in person. She had a face more comfortable with a grimace than a smile, and the signs of early middle-age were artfully concealed by makeup. If Amanda didn't know better, she probably would have guessed her to be in her early thirties as opposed to her true late thirties.

“Abby, are you ready?” Skye asked from behind her elevated reception desk. “You're here to see Christi, right?” The office, along with Skye, was split between three independent therapists.

“Yes,” Abby said, her voice barely a whisper. She quickly got up and didn't wait for Skye to open the door.

Amanda was left alone with her thoughts and those she had quietly gleaned from the suspicious Abby Eden. She was definitely hiding something—something so big that she expended the majority of her mental energy trying to contain it. Amanda needed more time and to be closer in order to break through. Mittens, her unruly and bloodthirsty inner child, whispered that there was an easier way: she could slice through the woman's brain like a knife through butter. Split her mind open like a rotten melon. Carve her up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Enough!
Amanda screamed at her own alter ego. Her heart was beating faster and she felt the surge of adrenaline and the rush of excitement. It was an option; she could take care of Abby Eden right here, right now. She could dispense justice without benefit of lawyers, judges, or juries. Mittens was on her feet now, and the light Amanda tried to live within became muted. There was no question of whether she could do it, or of getting away with it.

What's holding you back? Mittens asked.

The fact that she may not have done anything wrong,
Amanda answered herself, without much conviction. It wasn't just Mittens who wanted to let go. At a very basic level, Amanda wanted to let go. An animal instinct to rip and tear, to cause pain, and to kill pulsed through her. She wanted to be completely unleashed, and to exhaust herself in the pursuit of violence and brutality. If it happened to coincide with justice, all the better. Her hands began to shake, and the Tiffany crystal lamp on Skye's desk exploded, literally scaring the hell out of Amanda.

Skye came running back to her desk at the sound of the shattering glass. The metal base was smoking and she stood frozen in indecision. She looked up to Amanda, who had jumped to her feet. “What … happened?”

“I don't know, but you need to unplug it before it starts to burn.” Amanda's warning only made Skye back farther away. Amanda crossed the room, broken glass underfoot, and pulled the cord from the wall.

“Thanks,” Skye said, taking a second before she approached her desk. “What happened?”

“I don't know; it just exploded.” Amanda feigned surprise and confusion. Skye began to pick up pieces of multicolored glass from her desktop. Amanda knew that she had caused the explosion. She had no idea how, but was certain that she was responsible. She had shorted out the air pumps in Tellis and very nearly killed Nathan Martin, but she had directed that herself. This lack of control was a new and scary dimension. Even Mittens had retreated back into the shadows, and only a wisp of desire remained. “Here, let me help you,” she said, suddenly feeling very guilty.

“No, I'll just call our maintenance man.” Skye looked up at Amanda. “Uh, you're bleeding.” She pointed to her own left cheek and backed away from the sight of blood. She pushed a box of Kleenex across the desk and managed to knock more glass shards to the ground. “Sorry,” she said as they hit the tile floor at Amanda's feet.

“It's just a scratch,” Amanda said, dabbing the bead of blood from her cheek. The door to the offices opened and Abby Eden pulled up short at the sight of glass and the smell of ozone and burned plastic.

“Careful, Mrs. Eden, there's glass everywhere,” Skye yelled.

“I can see that,” she answered, cautiously picking her way.

“Maybe I'll just come back another time,” Amanda said to Skye, and backed her way to the door.

“Okay,” the confused girl answered absently.

Amanda reached the door before Abby and held it for the older woman, who muttered “thanks” and then walked to the elevators. Amanda followed in her wake, trying to break through to the woman's closely defended secret. It took only a few seconds before the elevator arrived. Abby walked in first and Amanda followed. “Ground floor please,” Abby ordered politely. Amanda hit the button and the car moved for a moment and then jerked to a violent stop.

“Oh for Christ's sake,” Abby spat.

After several long expectant moments the phone rang and Amanda answered it. A voice said, “This is building maintenance; is everything all right?”

“I'm fine but the car has stopped.”

“Is the door open?”

“No, the door is not open,” she answered.
The power has just been cut off,
her mind added.

“Okay,” the voice said with bored resignation. “I'll send somebody up.”

“He said that help is on its way,” Amanda relayed to Abby.

“Thank you,” she said formally.

“Might as well relax,” Amanda said, and she slid to the floor. Abby didn't react and remained standing, facing the sealed doors. Her resistance was still high, but the proximity afforded Amanda an insurmountable advantage. Abby screamed, grabbed her head, and buckled at the knees.

“God,” she yelled as she staggered back to the faux wood paneling and dropped slowly to the floor.

“Interesting choice of terms, Abby,” Amanda said, the older woman's pain suddenly rekindling the wonderfully sadistic desires in Amanda. “You heartless bitch. This was all a setup.” It dawned on Amanda just how easily Abby had done it. She was about the same size as her husband; the right clothes gave her the approximate shape, and they shared the same hair color. “That's why it seemed so amateurish. Killing Idle was just a way of getting rid of your husband. And the innocent wife routine with the detectives, the sudden appearance of a key that opened a storage unit that just happens to have the murder weapon. Bravo.” Amanda began to clap slowly.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Abby said, her face fixed in stone.

“The hell you don't,” Amanda said just before Abby screamed a second time. “I want to tell you something I have never told anybody.” Amanda stood and took a step closer to the seated woman. “I can literally see into your mind. I know exactly what you did, how you did it, and when you did it. But that's only part of my secret.” Amanda suddenly felt like a towering giant. “I can make anything I imagine happen. With a single thought I can stop an elevator. Or let it go.” The elevator car suddenly dropped three floors, and then just as suddenly it came to a bone-jarring stop. Abby started to scream with terror. “Shhh, quiet down,” Amanda said gently.

“You're fucking crazy; stay away from me,” Abby screamed. “Help! Somebody get me out of here!” She climbed to her feet and began pounding on the metal doors.

“Calm down, Abby, please,” Amanda pleaded. She could barely control Mittens, who, inflamed by Abby's screams, now demanded release. Power seemed to surge through her, and one of the fluorescent lights began to flair and smoke. “Sit down, NOW!” Amanda screamed. Abby flew across the car as if she had been shot out of a gun. She hit the back wall with enough force to rattle the light panels, causing dust to rain down on them. “Stop moving, and stop talking,” Amanda said through clenched teeth. She retained control by only the barest margin.