“Right,” he murmured, “but that would explain the grief and the sadness.”
“Yes, and thewhy measpect.”
“Of course because not only is it one blow but it’s now three blows.”
“Exactly. And more really, with her education and career off track as well. For some people it’s just all too much.”
“Hell,” he said forcibly, “for anybody that’s too much. Look at your mother.”
“I don’t want to,” she said flatly. “My mother is a mess.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “And you’re still dealing with it yourself.”
She snorted. “And I probably always will be.”
“So, this woman. Do you have a name for her?”
“Pamela. Pamela.”
“Pamela,” he said slowly. “You know what? That fits.”
“If you say so. I don’t know what the mind of a Pamela looks like.”
He must have smiled as it easily came through in his voice. “I don’t know that people associate sounds with names, but it might help when I try to talk to her.”
“You do that, and at least now you know where that connection is likely coming from.”
“Yes, even that body odor had a feminine smell to it, now that I think about it. As if she exercises intently, possible as a form of stress release, and that’s when I’m picking up on her. I’ll rest a lot easier, knowing she’s not imprisoned somewhere.”
“Only in her own mind,” she said quietly. “In a guilt-ridden prison of her own making and then the loss of her sight is giving her no light to crawl back out to.”
“Not a visual I’d like to remember.” After a moment, he added, “I wonder how I can help.” And, with that, he hung up.
Kate stared at her pretzel, wondering at a man like Simon, whose response to the plight of this one woman would be to wonder if she needs help. Of course she needed help, but that he had wondered—and now knowing the next step in his mind would be to try to figure out what he could do to help Pamela—just blew Kate away.
He was a good man on so many levels. Now if only he didn’t have this weird penchant for connecting with her victims.
*
Pamela. Simon rolledthe name around in his mind, as if it would open up the door to all the secrets he hadn’t been able to access. The door into her mind, the door into her heart, the door into her soul. Mentally he visualized the big door and its lock, and, with the key in his hand, he popped the lock and opened the door and stepped inside.
“Pamela,” he called out quietly, as he sat in his chair, trying hard to keep his energy contained, so he could suck in the vortex of her space. He felt a certain startled reaction from her.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, fear in her voice.
“It’s fine. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Who are you?” she cried out.
He felt her body jolt and jerk, as if she were trying to see in the shadows, and he realized she was brandishing a stick with her hand. He groaned; this was not what he wanted. “Easy,” he whispered. “Take it easy. I’m just talking to you.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m inside your mind.” He stopped, not sure he could do this. Part of him wanted to cry out to his grandmother and to tell her that this was all wrong, that he wasn’t the right person for this. But she wasn’t here to listen either.
Pamela quieted. “What do you mean, you’re in my mind?”
“You’ve been sending out messages. I’m a psychic”—he winced at the phrase—“and I’m picking up your distress.”