[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
"Where did you learn to write?"
"I'm self-taught."
"But you must have some inspiration?"
I had to smile. "Are you asking me where I get my ideas?"
"Why is that funny?"
"Everyone asks me that." I paused. "There's a troll in my bedroom closet. He
inspires me."
"Have you ever met him?"
"He comes out occasionally."
Roger leaned over and took my hand, studying my palm, holding it close to the
candle. Close enough that I felt its heat. His face was serious.
"You know, they say you can read a person's whole life in the lines of their
palm." He stroked my open hand gently with his fingertips the sensation was
delicious. He traced a line that led from beneath my small finger in a straight
line below my other fingers. "This is your heart line. It predicts your love life."
"How is it?" I asked.
"It forks at the end. A fork in one of the major lines shows great power in that
area of life. You have a big heart, Jean. You're compassionate and kind. But
your heart line is also splintered." He pointed to a spot one-third of the way
down the line. "Here, where the break is, you're about twenty-one years old."
"What does a splinter mean?"
"That your heart will be divided at that time."
"But I'm twenty-one now."
Roger nodded. "So you're in for interesting times. Let's see your intellect line. It
comes from the other direction, and curves downward. You see it?"
"Yes. It's also forked."
"Yes. You're obviously intelligent. It has no breaks in it. Come what may, you
will always keep your head."
I smiled nervously. "Even if my heart breaks?"
"That appears to be the case." He frowned.
"This is strange."
"What?"
"Your life line. It breaks around this time in your life. In fact, there are large
gaps in the line. And then, a little later, it just runs out."
"What does that mean?"
He glanced up. "It means you're going to die."
I took back my palm. "I hardly think so," I replied sharply.
He sat back and chuckled. "It's only pretend, Shari. Don't get upset."
"I'm not upset."
"You're acting upset. Anyway, the first break in your life line occurred three
years ago. If there was anything to it, you would be dead already."
Three years ago. That was when I was born.
CHAPTER VIII
That same afternoon I visited Private Detective John Garrett, who earlier had
been Lieutenant John Garrett. Four years ago Garrett's brilliant detective work
had been largely responsible for acquitting me of suicide and balcony diving.
After I returned to Earth in Jean Rodrigues's body, and subsequently became
rich and famous, I sent Garrett a cashiers' check for fifty thousand dollars. I
made the gift anonymously. Garrett promptly quit the force and set up shop as
a private eye.
I had kept loose track of his career, but never gathered the courage to visit
him. Until today I'd had no burning need for a private detective. Now I thought
I did.
"I have my secrets. You have your secrets. There's nothing wrong with that."
Had Roger's line been innocent? Or was he trying to tell me that he knew I was
a Wanderer? I would have immediately dismissed the possibility except he had
gone out of his way to point out the discrepancy between Jo's story and mine.
The guy was the star of my movie, I thought. I was making out with him. I had
to know more about him. The resume on the back of his picture, or headshot,
was vague. He had done some Chicago theater, taken a few acting classes.
Everything he listed had been done in the past twelve months. His permanent
address was a P.O. box, his home phone number a message service. Briefly I
considered trying to research his past myself, but decided I didn't have the
time. Besides, I didn't know the ins and outs of detecting. Garrett it would have
to be. I could have gone to any private detective, but I chose Garrett because I
wanted to see him, with human eyes. See how he was doing. Thank him again,
somehow, for what he had done for me.
When I walked into his office in Century City's twin towers and saw who his
secretary was, I almost fainted.
"A leg! Give me her legs! They taste so good with sausage and eggs!"
His cute dark-haired daughter, the one Peter and I had gotten off drugs by
scaring the crap out of her sat behind the desk. She seemed healthier and
more stable than I was. She glanced up as I entered.
"Hello. May I help you?"
"I cannot stop him without your help, child. If you die on drugs, he will come
for you."
I took a moment to collect my wits. "Is your father here?" I asked.
The young woman appeared surprised. "How did you know Detective Garrett
and I were related?"
I hesitated. "The person who referred me to your father told me."
"Oh. Who was that?"
"I can't remember his name." I nodded to her appointment book. "I called an
hour ago. I was supposed to be here at three sharp. I'm sorry I'm twenty
minutes late. I got caught in traffic."
I was late because I had gone back to ask Henry what he knew about Roger.
Garrett would need something to start his investigation, that is, if he took the
case. The office was nice, the rent high. Garrett was obviously doing well.
"Have a seat please," the daughter said. "I'll tell my father you're here. Ms ?"
"Jean Rodrigues." I couldn't meet him as Shari Cooper. That was one name he
would remember, I was sure.
She stood. "I'll be just a minute."
I was left waiting ten minutes, but finally I was ushered into Garrett's office,
which had a glorious view of Beverly Hills and Westwood, gold plaques on the
walls, and leather furniture. The smell of success.
He was talking on the phone and gestured for me to have a seat in front of his
imposing desk. Settling myself, I recalled how I had described him in my book.
He was a man on his way down in life. In his midforties, he had on a frumpy
green sports coat and a wrinkled white shirt with a loosely knotted purple tie
caught beneath his oversize belt. He needed a good meal. His thin brown hair
was going gray, and his red wizened face had seen either too much sun or too
much life. He looked burned out. He was lifting a pint of whiskey to his lips
when I tapped on his window.
Garrett had found a new chef and tailor. Besides having gained weight and
improved his wardrobe, I believed he must have had a facelift. He looked five
years younger than when I met him the night I died. He showed no signs of
being an alcoholic now.
Finally he set down the phone and glanced over at me.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "I have a few rather intense
clients. They call at all hours and want to know that everything's going to be all
right."
"I imagine that it would take an intense person to come see you."
He chuckled. "Let's just say I haven't met many normal people lately. Except
perhaps you. What can I do for you?"
"I need background information on a certain young man." I handed him Roger's
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]