The Girl Who Sees Read online

  So, I have to ask myself a simple question. It’s a question that strangers have asked me a lot in my life, and I’ve always replied with a vehement “no.”

  Am I psychic?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fluffster jumps from my lap onto the table and steals a piece of almond from my bowl as I mull over that impossible idea.

  In my philosophy class, we learned the technique of reductio ad absurdum—to prove something false, you first assume it’s true, then use logic to carry that assumption to some ridiculous conclusion.

  So what if I assume I can “dream” the future?

  For one thing, it would create a small paradox right off the bat. When I see the future in my dream, I immediately gain the power to change it, so I’m not really seeing the future, just a possibility that can be thwarted. In fact, my very first “prophetic dream” was about getting strangled (they do like to do that to me) by that first cadaver on the stage. But when I came to my senses, I ran away from him—so I didn’t dream the future in that case, not in the strictest sense of the word.

  So then maybe I see possibilities of the future—a sort of forecast. This is better, because it deals with any pesky fate and/or free will problems—and since it makes predicting the future harder, I’ll pretend that free will is not an illusion for this chain of logic.

  So, if I assume that I can make these data-lacking but accurate forecasts, what ridiculous conclusions does that lead to?

  Not many come to mind, but there is one elephant-sized thing. In the morgue dream, words like “vampire” and “werewolf” were thrown about. That puts me deeper into la la land, because mythical creatures are much more incredible than predicting the future. After all, most movies and books that feature precognition (like Dune and Minority Report) are considered science fiction, but stories featuring vampires (i.e. Dracula and Twilight) are firmly in the realm of fantasy.

  And science fiction is more realistic than fantasy, right?

  Unlike Alice in Wonderland, I have limits on the number of impossible things I can believe before breakfast (and during). So, for my own sanity, I focus on one impossibility for now—prophetic dreams. Assuming for a moment that this might be possible, it means that my last dream about Beatrice might’ve correctly predicted what’s going to happen to a woman named Amie in a Brooklyn hospital later today.

  The oatmeal suddenly tastes like sandpaper as I fully register the implications. It’s 9:23 a.m. now, which means in forty-seven minutes, a woman will be killed, just so that she can become a fresh cadaver for Beatrice to raise (necromancy is another aspect of this whole thing that I won’t dwell on at the moment).

  I force myself to swallow the food in my mouth and push aside my bowl.

  My course of action is crystal clear.

  I must go to Maimonides Hospital and stop that murder from happening.

  If I don’t go, and I later learn that Amie does exist and that she died, it will be on my conscience forever. Going there is also my best chance to validate this forecast theory. If Amie is there and Beatrice arrives in her room at the same time as in my dream, I’ll be that much closer to accepting my powers as fact.

  It would also be possible to ask Beatrice some pointed questions.

  Dumping the rest of my breakfast into the trash, I run to my closet. Since I’m in a rush, I grab the first thing I see—the outfit I usually wear at my restaurant gig: black leather pants, a shirt with breast pockets and a hidden inside pocket attached by a safety pin, plus a leather jacket. I also grab my phone from the charger.

  It’s only at seven percent, but it will have to do.

  On the elevator ride down, I debate the fastest way to get to my destination. A car ride there can take anywhere from fifteen minutes to over an hour, depending on traffic. A subway ride is more reliable than a car, but that would involve transfers, so it would take forty to fifty minutes, which means I definitely wouldn’t make it in time. My Vespa would be perfect for this, but it’s toast.

  Launching a ride-hailing app, I summon a car as soon as I exit the elevator, and three minutes later, I’m sitting in a nice Honda Civic, en route to the hospital.

  I consider bribing my driver the way I did yesterday, but I didn’t bring any of Nero’s cash with me. Also, this driver doesn’t look friendly, and our arrival time depends on traffic much more than on his driving skills.

  Calling Ariel again, I get voice mail, so I leave a message asking her to call me back immediately. For good measure, I text her the same demand. The main thing I want to know is whether I can I call the cops about Amie’s possible murder. When Ariel told me not to call them yesterday, was that a generic prohibition, or was it specific to the body-parts scenario?

  Of course, if I did call 911 and told them the truth, they would think I’m crazy, but I’m a good enough illusionist to spin a false tale that would hopefully convince them to go check on Amie. For instance, I could claim that I heard gunfire from her hospital room, or cries for help.

  “Watch it, retard!” my driver shouts with a heavy accent, hitting the brakes so hard I nearly fly off my seat. I’m pretty sure he just cut off a bus, rather than the other way around, but I decide against saying anything and make a mental note to leave him a bad review.

  The adrenaline rush clears some of the lingering fuzziness in my mind, and an obvious idea occurs to me.

  I can call the hospital and see if they have a patient named Amie Descanso.

  Before my mind can launch into a list of pros and cons, I look up the number for the hospital and dial it. While the phone rings, I force myself to recall everything I’ve ever heard about hospital privacy policies—the last thing I want is to get tangled up in red tape.

  The phone connects, and a woman says, “Maimonides Hospital.”

  “Hi,” I say, getting into an illusionist mindset—otherwise known as “preparing to lie my ass off.”

  “How can I help you?” the woman asks.

  “I’m on my way to visit my sister,” I say. “Her name is Amie Descanso. I think she’s in the long-term care unit, or hospice. Can you please tell me what room she’s in?”

  I wait tensely as the woman starts typing away.

  “Please tell me you don’t have a patient by that name,” is what I want to say, but I bite my tongue. I’m also a little worried that the lie I concocted isn’t good enough and that the operator won’t give me an answer by the time we enter the tunnel—a no-reception area—that we’re swiftly approaching.

  “She’s in room 4128,” the woman says to my shock and proceeds to tell me how to best navigate to the room.

  “Thank you,” I say as we drive into the tunnel. My palms are damp, and my head is spinning from the implication, but I gather my thoughts enough to say, “Actually, there’s something else I need help with—”

  The call disconnects, my phone showing zero bars. What’s worse, the battery is on one percent now.

  Numbly, I stare at the tunnel wall lights flashing by. So the hospital does have a patient with that name, and she’s in the exact same room as in my dream.

  What are the odds of this being a coincidence? My analytical mind tells me that they’re low—so low that when combined with everything else, my dream must not be just a dream.

  Amie’s life really is in danger, and I must do whatever I can to save her.

  Frantically, I consider calling the police despite Ariel’s admonition, or at the very least, trying the hospital again. I’ll have to dance around the truth, but I’ll come up with something plausible. Maybe I can claim that a nurse named Bea T. Rice molested my “sister,” or that Amie told me she’s feeling very sick or is being stalked—

  My phone makes a death-throes sound as its battery dies—and we haven’t even gotten out of the stupid tunnel.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Raj Harry, the name on the driver’s prominently displayed ID. “Do you have a USB Micro B charger for my Android phone?”

  “I’m sorry,” Raj says, his heavily accented
voice devoid of any hint of apology. “I use iPhone.”

  Indeed, there’s an iPhone running a GPS app in the front dashboard. The app has our route mapped out and estimates our arrival at 10:09 a.m. He sees me looking at his phone in the rearview mirror and tilts it toward himself so I can’t see the screen anymore.

  “Can I please use your phone then?” I say, ignoring the rude gesture. “After we exit the tunnel, I mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says and shrugs in the rearview mirror. “I have a T-Mobile data-only plan.”

  I find his statement hard to believe. Even if such a plan exists, I doubt you could get it with an iPhone.

  “It should still allow 911 calls,” I say, trying to call his bluff. “I need to call emergency services—my sister is in trouble.”

  “It can’t call 911.” For the first time, I see some emotion on his face. He looks very concerned.

  Does he have some issue with the police? Is that where the reluctance is coming from?

  Did a rider report him to the cops before?

  Pushing that scary thought aside, I scramble for solutions. “What if I PayPal you a hundred dollars?” I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Can I use your phone then? Maybe I can email the hospital?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his face impassive once again. “I need my phone to navigate. I cannot give it to you.”

  If this were a limo, I bet the guy would close the partition between us.

  We finally exit the tunnel, and I debate asking him to let me out of the car. But we’re on the highway, and I’d definitely be late to the hospital then. I also consider just leaning forward and boldly grabbing the phone, but this is even more likely to lead to a delay—plus, I could get beaten up or arrested.

  The driver cuts off another car, honking furiously, and zooms by the toll booths.

  “Is it the bruise on my neck that’s making you uncomfortable?” I ask on a hunch.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, turning his mirror in such a way that I can’t see his face anymore. “My English is not so good.”

  “You’re getting a bad review, I can tell you that,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, reminding me of those customer service reps who sound like a broken record. “Let’s not talk anymore. I need to focus on the road.”

  “Can you at least tell me what time it is?” I try to sound polite despite my anger. “Or tilt the phone my way?”

  He must’ve really meant the whole no-talk thing because he doesn’t reply to me.

  We hit the first patch of traffic after a few minutes of sullen silence. I try asking for the time or the phone in light of the traffic, but he continues the mute act.

  Sitting in traffic always feels like forever, but this time, I swear I see my nails grow before we leave the patch of congestion.

  To stay sane, I practice the breathing techniques Lucretia taught me and fantasize about the evil pranks I can pull as payback to the unhelpful Raj Harry. Since I know his name, maybe Felix can hack into the DMV for me and get me his address. I could then take my revenge via snail mail with a postcard offering “Discount Adult Diapers,” or with a bag of gummy penises I bookmarked online “just in case.”

  No, those are too mild. I’ll instead mail him a box with Fluffster’s poop, or a rotten fish accompanied by a dead flower arrangement.

  The severity of the punishment will depend on whether I save Amie or not.

  We leave the highway and wind our way through the Brooklyn streets.

  The one nice thing I can say about Brooklyn, or at least this part of it, is that we pass numbered avenues, which makes it easier to follow our route without GPS. The hospital is on 10th Avenue and 48th Street, so when I see 47th Street, I get excited.

  We reach 10th Avenue in a few moments and turn right. I already have my hand on the door handle.

  He stops by the hospital entrance but doesn’t break the uncomfortable silence.

  “I sincerely hope you get replaced with a self-driving vehicle,” I say as I leap out of the car and slam the door as hard as I can.

  His tires screech as he drives away, and I hurry toward the entrance.

  The key to making sure no one asks you dumb questions when you go into semi-restricted areas, such as a hospital, is to look confident.

  So, looking confident, I go in and dash down the hallways connecting the buildings before I find the right one. From there, I take the elevator to the fourth floor. All the while, I try to look like I belong, and my haste is the most natural thing in the world.

  My strategy works. Even the few nurses at the station on the fourth floor must assume I’m supposed to be here because no one blinks an eye.

  I spot a big round clock above the nursing station, and a chill wraps around my spine.

  It’s 10:35 a.m., long past my target of 10:19.

  Then I realize not all is lost. In my dream, Beatrice didn’t kill Amie right away—she let her have a last meal first. I can still save the day, depending on how long that part took. I wish I’d checked the time periodically inside the dream, but I didn’t.

  I sprint for room 4128 so fast my boots skid on the recently washed floor.

  Facing the door, I brace myself for a possible encounter with Beatrice. My breath is ragged from the recent run and the adrenaline pounding through me.

  Hand quivering, I reach for the door handle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amie is lying face up on the bed. She looks exactly like she did in my dream—which clearly wasn’t just a dream.

  Beatrice isn’t here.

  Am I too late?

  The hospital equipment has been tampered with and doesn’t help with proof of life.

  I approach the bed and check Amie’s pulse on her wrist.

  It’s gone.

  As a mentalist, I know some methods to create an illusion of one’s heart stopping. For instance, a ball under the armpit can make the pulse seem to slow and then stop. So I check Amie’s neck.

  No pulse here either.

  I put my dead phone’s screen under her mouth to see if she fogs up the glass with her breathing.

  The screen remains clear.

  My heart sinks.

  I failed.

  She’s dead.

  I consider running to the nursing station, so they can try to resuscitate her, but then I notice streaks of blood on the bed and recall Beatrice’s carvings. In the morgue nightmare, their purpose was to delay the corpse’s reanimation until Beatrice is gone.

  And Beatrice is not here.

  A potent sense of foreboding grips me.

  “I better go get the nurses,” I say out loud to no one in particular.

  As I head for the door, a simple and terrifying idea swirls through my head. In my haste, the only possibility I didn’t let myself fully dwell on was that Amie would not only die, but come back. And if everything until this moment has been confirmed as true, then logic (or the twisted sister that has replaced it) dictates that Amie is going to become a walking dead, and soon. She will also be in some way superior to the other cadavers, or so I assume based on Beatrice’s comments about her “freshness.”

  I’m by the door when I hear the rustling of a hospital gown on the starched sheets behind me.

  She’s moving.

  I grab the door handle, but it slips though my sweaty palm.

  Naked feet slap against the gray vinyl tiles of the floor.

  Wiping my hands on my shirt, I wrench open the door, rush out, and slam it behind me.

  Leg muscles straining, I sprint toward the nursing station.

  The door behind me opens and slams with a bang.

  “Call security,” I yell at the nurse at the station. “The patient behind me is having a breakdown.”

  Without waiting for the nurse’s reply, I run up to the elevator and stab at the plastic button.

  I inhale a dozen ragged breaths in the moment it takes me to decide that the elevator isn’t going
to cut it, and dash for the staircase.

  I’m halfway to the third floor when the staircase door above me slams. I flinch at the noise, but keep running down the stairs.

  The shuffling of bare feet on dusty cement follows, leaving no doubt about who’s following me.

  Leaping down two steps at a time, I nearly fall and almost twist my ankle twice, but I reach the first floor in mere seconds.

  Running out of the main entrance, I have a new hope. Someone will stop a hospital-gown-wearing patient before she flashes her naked butt on the street, right?

  When I reach the corner of 10th Ave and 48th Street, I chance a glance back at the hospital entrance.

  Either the security didn’t care, or they couldn’t handle Amie—she’s only a few yards behind me. I notice that she indeed moves much faster and smoother than the cadavers who came after me earlier. She also looks less “dead,” and now that I think about it, she didn’t smell at all.

  Turning the corner, I pick up the pace because I see the brownish-green of the aboveground subway tracks in the distance—a noisy eyesore from another era.

  The weather-beaten pavement squares blur under my feet, and the red stone buildings seem to merge together. The few pedestrians I pass give me questioning looks, but I ignore them, running with all my might.

  When I reach the street with the subway overhead, I turn right at random, figuring a stop will be forthcoming either way I turn.

  Some of the businesses I pass are still closed, and graffiti adorns their ugly gray security gates. Their awnings haven’t been changed in all the history of Brooklyn, and each one has those hazardous basement street entrances via a cellar with double hatches. I make sure to stay clear of the cellars as I sprint; the last thing I want is to fall into one, like Samantha did in Sex and the City.

  I see the subway entrance a block and a half away, and there’s a train in the distance.