my whole body freezes. I keep my eyes closed and the images flow in, like shaky, unclear clips from a home video.
I hear footsteps before the image comes into focus – the sharp click-click of heels on tar. I see solid calves, stylish brown shoes. There’s a shadow in the corner of my eye, deformed and threatening. The woman stops. She turns to run, then she’s falling through the earth. I hear the air rushing past her, her ragged, frightened breath and something else, like a voice from far away. As she’s falling, someone passes her. He’s falling upwards, returning to the place she just left. She catches a glimpse of a face. Henry Marshall.
I open my eyes. My breathing is still coming in gasps. Though the images weren’t in focus, the sounds were clear and crisp. That’s new. I shake my head slowly and take a deep breath to steady myself. Henry Marshall is coming home, and someone else is about to take his place.
I stay still for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Call the police? No, of course not. What would I say? “Hi, I had a premonition that an unknown woman is going to vanish from an unknown place at an unknown time. Could you take care of it?” I don’t think so.
Premonitions are tricky. Popular fiction would have us believe that it all gets mapped out in a medium’s mind, the details fall into place and hey, presto – the crime is solved. In reality premonitions are often fragmented and frustrating, influenced by everything from the medium’s emotions and perceptions to those of the people close to her. In other words, my blind spots can easily get in the way of my second sight.
For all I know, the woman is being spirited away at this very moment. I send my gift back into my memory, searching the premonition for any lingering threads. A place would be enough…but there’s nothing. All I have to go on is what I’ve been given. A woman, a shadow, a deep, dark hole, and Henry Marshall’s face.
I drag myself out of bed, squinting at the sunlight sneaking in between my curtains. Dad’s just coming out of the bathroom, dressed to go out.
“You look awful,” he remarks.
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” He puts his hand on the top of my head and tilts it back so I’m looking at him. “You look like you could use more rest.”
“I can’t. I’m supposed to see Ntatemogolo this morning.” I stifle a yawn.
“You should tell him to stop by later; we need to discuss the Salinger project. Or maybe just invite him over for dinner.”
I blink. A few months ago those words would never have left his mouth. A few months ago he’d rather have starved than broken bread with Ntatemogolo, and my grandfather would have felt the same.
His smile falters as he realises what he’s just said. “Unless you’re not feeling up to it,” he says hastily. “You’ll be tired, I’ll be tired – he and I can talk on the phone.”
I’m not letting him off the hook. The fact that he suggested dinner, albeit absent-mindedly, means a part of him wants to have a good relationship with my grandfather for his own sake as much as mine.
“No, it’s a great idea,” I tell him. “I’ll cook. It’ll be a proper family dinner, and the two of you can talk business afterwards.”
“Actually…”
“It’s settled!” I beam at him, walk into the bathroom and close the door before he can argue, and I stay in there until I hear the car pull out of the driveway. A Bennett-Raditladi family dinner. I wonder what that’s going to be like.
An hour and a half later I walk up the road to Ntatemogolo’s house with the Puppetmaster’s puzzle box in my bag. I still feel unwell. My bones ache and my stomach keeps lurching. Premonitions don’t affect me this way, so I can only assume I must be coming down with something. I knock on my grandfather’s front door, then open it and enter. Ntatemogolo is in the kitchen, washing his only pot.
“Dad wants you to come over for dinner tonight,” I announce after greeting him.
He turns to give me a suspicious look. “Why?”
“He wants to discuss Salinger business.”
“We both have phones and email accounts.”
“He wants us to spend time together as a family.”
Ntatemogolo places the pot on the drying rack, dries his hands on a napkin and turns to face me. “Has something happened? Did he have another supernatural shock?”
I shake my head. I understand his position. In his shoes I’d be suspicious, too. “He’s trying to mend things between you two. It’s only dinner.”
He sighs. “Seven p.m. A simple meal, no sweets.”
Typical. We invite him, yet he dictates the terms. We head to the consultation room, where I tell him about my premonition.
His expression turns grave. “What can you tell me about the woman?”
“Nothing. All I saw was her legs.”
“Think, Connie.”
I close my eyes and call up the memory. It has faded in intensity, but I still recall the details. “She was wearing brown shoes with a bit of a heel. I couldn’t see them properly, but I got the impression they were expensive. She was walking on a road.”
“Tar or dirt?”
“Tar. It was dark, but not dark like night. It just felt dark. She was in a hurry.”
“Was she late? Afraid?”
“Not late.” I take a mental step back so my gift can take charge, picking through the premonition with care. “Afraid.” I feel it now, the accelerated thud of her heartbeat. “There was no obvious threat, but on some level she knew about the shadow.”
“What shadow? Describe it.”
“It was on the edge of my vision – hard to see. Misshapen, like a monster in a movie.”
“Metaphor,” murmurs Ntatemogolo.
“When she saw it she tried to run, but something hit her and she fell. It’s all so vague.”
“The culprit has taken steps to shield himself.”
My eyes open. “Which makes sense if he’s the Puppetmaster.” My premonitions are always related to people I know. I don’t know the victim, so I must know the culprit.
Ntatemogolo strokes his beard and doesn’t answer.
“Do you think we can save the woman?”
He shakes his head, as I knew he would. “We don’t know who or where she is.”
My mind is whirring, wondering what on earth the Puppetmaster wants with a gifted CEO and a woman with fancy shoes. I shake my head and look at my grandfather, who still seems deep in thought.
“Ntatemogolo, is something wrong?”
He takes a moment to answer. “I’ve located another first-generation drifter in Ghana. I leave tomorrow.”
I swallow. I don’t want him to leave now, when so much is going on. I don’t want to be left to deal with the Puppetmaster alone. Look what happened the last time Ntatemogolo left!
“He will come to you.”
He means the Puppetmaster. We both know how the tricky devil operates – the minute Ntatemogolo is out of the way he’ll schedule the next meeting.
Ntatemogolo leans forward. “Don’t go. Come up with an excuse to postpone until I return.”
I stare at him. “He’ll see right through it!”
“Let him. You promised three meetings and you will deliver, but we need time. He wants us to think he is in control, but he is not. You have a choice. He is not going to kill me if you defy him.”