PROLOGUE

November 12

3:30 pm

The bailiff hollers a summons. His voice is drowned by the sound of a hundred people rising in response to his demand, eagerly awaiting the appearance of the judge. The brief recess is over, the murder trial about to continue. Judge Landon makes his way back into the court room. The stomp of his shoes sounds ominous in the reverent silence.

I’m a bit late in getting to my feet, and am one of the last to sit again. It’s not a lack of respect on my part, just the normal nerves of any witness more focused on questions and answers than protocol. I’ve been on the stand since noon, and am about to meet the defense attorney and her cross-examination. I can’t remember her name, but I know her type. She’s one of those lawyers who take on sensational cases for the media blitz. Our interaction this afternoon has been unpleasant. My stomach is tight, my palms are damp and I think I might throw up.

The judge’s calm voice interrupts my thoughts. “Let me remind you that you’re under oath, Mr. Marcum.”

I take a deep breath and glance in his direction. Since I’m just an ordinary person, maybe he thinks I need the coaching, but I’ve testified before.

With a nod, I say, “Yes, sir.”

Across the wide isle I can see my adversary. She walks toward me. “Mr. Marcum,” she begins, “earlier, you told us how you worked with the Los Angeles Police Department to discover of the body of Tommy Martin."

“Yes.”

“How did you, a man who lives three hundred miles away, get involved in the case?”

My brow furrows as I repeat, for what feels like the thousanth time, "I was given the boy’s teddy bear. I saw things when I held it. Mental images. It led me to the body.”

“Let me rephrase,” she says, deliberately slowing her words, making me feel like I’m three instead of close to thirty, “How did you first get involved? Did someone call you?”

“No.”

“E-mail?”

“No.”

“You just walked into the police station at random-”

Joel Knight, the district attorney stands, “Objection, Your Honor.”

“Your honor,” she replies, “Mr. Marcum has admitted he’s not a professional psychic accustomed to this sort of work. I’m entitled to know what initiated his contact with the police in this case.”

The judge seems to agree. His black robe rustles as he shifts his weight in his chair to stare down at me. “Answer the question.”

The response is simple. “Tommy asked me to come.”

“When and how did he make this request if you never met him?”

I remember it vividly. “June 14th, around one in the morning.”

“According to the coroner’s report, Tommy Martin died on June 13 between the hours of five and seven pm.” The defense attorney sneers at me, and I can almost see the dollars signs in her eyes. The victim’s family was wealthy, part of the red carpet elite in Southern California and his killer denies all charges. This courtroom circus act can only end with me in the spotlight for all to examine. The headline I envision isn't pretty.

It won’t do to appear weak and be less than convincing to the jury. My voice is strong as I reply, “Yes. He left me a note the next morning.”

“A note?”

I’m quite certain her hearing isn’t impaired, so I just blink and wait for the punch line.

“This note?” She walks over to the evidence table and lifts a yellow legal pad. It had been marked by the prosecution, but not introduced. “Are you trying to say that Tommy Martin wrote this note?”

“Not exactly.”

"Define exactly."

“In conscious writing it is the writer who moves the pencil; in automatic writing it is the pencil that moves the writer.”

The papers are waved like a flag. “So you wrote this, didn’t you—this dribble about being kidnapped and held in a closet.”

“I wouldn’t call it dribble.”

“That’s right. You’re a best selling author.” She marches toward me in the witness chair, this time holding up a hardcover book. The title is Cheating Hearts, and my name, Hale Marcum, is displayed in gold letters. “Did you also write this novel in your sleep?”

The District Attorney, stands and says, “I object, Your Honor. Badgering the witness.”

I understand this is my cue to stay silent, but I’m sorely tempted to defend my dignity, or at least my book. I bite my tongue and try to keep my face carefully blank. As the attorneys begin to argue legal principle and admissibility of automatic writing, I look around the courtroom. The jury seems sympathetic, but this isn’t about me. Stiff from sitting, I roll my shoulders and take a few deep breaths.

Silence in the courtroom reminds me that someone should be talking. All eyes are on me. Maybe I was supposed to answer some sort of question, so I prompt, “Can you repeat that?”

“Have you ever sought psychiatric help, Mr. Marcum?” Her head tips to the side, and her long brown hair falls over her shoulder. The look she gives me is coy, a false smile posing for a camera.

“Objection.” the DA says again.

“It goes to motivation, Your Honor,” she says, “My client is entitled to know the state of mind of his accuser.”

I’m not sure I’d attach that label to myself. I’d prefer not to be involved at all and will do my best to forget as soon as I leave here today. I didn’t even know Tommy. Why he found me and told me his story is a mystery I’ll never unravel.

As I feared, the judge lets the drama continue. “Answer the question.”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “I went through a couple years of therapy a decade ago.”

“What were you in therapy for?”

Stating no more than the fact, I say, “It was grief counseling.”

“Do you have a problem with death, Mr. Marcum?”

I shrug. “No more than anyone else.”

This seems to be humorous, because she laughs. “I would have answered that question with a ‘no,’ Mr. Marcum.”

Joel stands. “Objection.”

The judge warns, “Be careful, Ms. Gleeson.”

My eyes narrow. Medical records are confidential, but I have a feeling she knows more and plans to play it.

She surprises me by saying, “I’ll withdraw the question.”

There is a pause while she walks back to stand near her client. A protective hand is placed on his shoulder as though he were the one being persecuted. “Mr. Marcum, hasn’t the publicity of this case helped your career?”

“I doubt it.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Objection, Your Honor, anything is possible.”

I’m starting to feel sorry for Joel. He’s been up and out of his chair a lot this afternoon. I decide to answer anyway. “I hope not, actually. I live alone, and prefer to keep my private life private.”

The defense council ignores the DA. “You’re here on a book tour, Mr. Marcum - for your third mystery story. Will you admit, that having your name in the newspaper promotes your fame and your book?”

“I would never assume that.”

“It’s not a logical assumption? Are you not a logical person?”

Joel hops up, “Objection!”

The judge stares down at the defense attorney. “Move on.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” she says, “I was on the topic of Mr. Marcum’s psychic abilities, which he does admit to. I’d like to test a theory if I may; I’ll keep it simple.”

She brings me a sheet of paper and pen. “I’m thinking of a number between one and ten. Close your eyes and think as I am. Get inside my head, Mr. Marcum.”

I don’t close my eyes; I feel a bit like a trained seal, but I carefully bank my resentment as she walks back to her own pad of paper. Holding it close to her chest, she jots something down. “What’s the number?” she demands.

Joel is arguing the point, even as I take a deep breath and concentrate. What comes back doesn’t make much sense, but I write down two numbers anyway.

The judge leans toward me. I can smell the garlic on his breath. “Do you wish to answer, Mr. Marcum?”

I’m a bit surprised by this option, but I agree rather than question. “I have no problem with it.” My word choice is deliberate, but I doubt anyone will get the joke.

The attorney takes this as her cue. “Did you pick the number three?”

“No.”

She flashes her pad of paper with the number 3 showing. “Is this the number you wrote down?”

“No,” I say.

There’s a gasp, and some muttering from the crowd. Joel looks down, shaking his head.

I’m not done yet. “Move your thumb,” I instruct.

“Excuse me?” she says.

I show my pad of paper, which reads the number 31. I don’t wave it at the jury; I’m not a showman. I carefully watch the face of my opponent. She’s good at masking her expression, but I know I’m right. “I said, move your thumb.”

She does as I ask, revealing two numbers. Her thumb had obscured the 1. No doubt if I’d said yes to writing down a 3, she’d have claimed her number to be a 1.

I can’t resist asking, “How does it feel to have me inside your head?”

Joel stays seated this time, waiting for reaction.

She just blinks. “Parlor trick.”

“Then you do it. I’m thinking of a number—”

A snap of the gavel adjourns the show. The judge asks, “Are you finished with the witness?”

“Hardly,” she grumbles.

I take a look at her client for reaction, surprised to see a half smile on the killer’s face. The grin reminds me of too much, and I look away first.

The judge says, “In that case, we’ll adjourn until tomorrow. Court is in recess until 9 am Thursday.”