Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary

He waited for her to continue.

“The papers were willed to me on the condition that they not be opened until the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death. That date falls two months from now. Of course I had to obey his wishes. Others have been after me to break my promise as soon as they found out the papers existed. But I would rather die than ignore my father’s last request in his suicide note.”

Suicide. Decker let that sink in. “The papers were with him when he committed suicide?”

“No, all of Father’s papers were left with an old, trusted friend. I was mailed the memoirs when I reached eighteen. They were delivered into my hands, completely sealed, the wrapping untampered with. Father’s wishes were recorded by the friend on a separate cover letter.”

“So your father’s friend knew the memoirs existed.”

“Oskar died six years ago. Before Freddy opened his mouth. Poor Oskar had nothing to do with the theft of the papers if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Decker tapped his pencil on his pad. “Was the cover letter written in English or do you read German?”

Lilah’s smile held strained patience. “Both the letter and the memoirs were written in English. They were dedicated to me, Peter. Father obviously wanted me to understand them. Father was fluent in five languages.”

“Why you and not your brother, Miss Brecht?”

“Poor Freddy …” Lilah sighed. “Always second-class citizen. He felt so neglected.” Her face soured. “So did Mother. When she found out about the memoirs, she was absolutely shocked, livid! The witch actually insisted that I open them and disregard my father’s wishes. She probably wanted to find out what was written about her. As if Father would waste his time recording their silly squabbles!”

Lilah seemed suddenly impatient.

“You never let me finish describing my attackers. Don’t you want useful information?”

“I thought we’d wait for the police artist.”

“Is your artist any good?”

“The best.” Decker looked up from his pad. “Lilah, how long a look did you get of each man?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you see each of them for thirty seconds? A minute?”

“I saw them as long as I wanted.”

“What do you mean? You were blindfolded.”

“As soon as they touched me, I was able to image their faces in my mind. That’s why I’m able to recall such detail. Brain imaging gives much more resolution than does the optic nerve.”

Decker hesitated a moment. “Lilah, did you see these men with your eyes?”

“I just told you, Peter, I imaged them!”

Decker paused, wondering more seriously about brain injury. “Lilah, the courts permit only eye witness testimony to be entered as evidence.”

“Peter, I’m not about to go into court and say I imaged these men. I realize no one would believe me. But who cares about what the court allows? Once I give you my imaged picture, you can find these animals and get some other kind of evidence on them.”

“Let me get this straight. You never actually saw your attackers?”

“I saw them for a moment with my eyes. But they were wearing ski masks. And then of course, they blindfolded me. As if that could stop me from imaging them. But then again, how could they have known I had that kind of gift?”

There was a moment of silence. Maybe the woman had been suffering from some kind of emotional problem long before the rape.

Lilah looked down. “You don’t believe me. You will learn. I have this gift, Peter, a prophetic vision of the future. And like Cassandra, I too am met with skepticism or, worse, derision. It no longer bothers me. Because unlike Cassandra’s visions, eventually people do witness my visions.”

She leaned over and took his hand.

“It is not a gift actually, it is a curse. I pray to God every day that I will wake up normal. That one day, I will see the world just as everyone else does. Perhaps I don’t pray hard enough.”

Decker was silent, unsure of how to answer her.

Lilah palpated his palm. “I can feel your resistance, but I can also feel your subliminal vibratory waves. Our connection makes an unusually strong field. Eventually, you will trust me, Detective. I really do have these powers.”

A throat cleared, and Decker turned to the sound’s source. Pad and mug books in hand, Leo, the police artist, was leaning his gut against the door frame, his cherubic face as red as cooked lobster.

Decker yanked his hand away and stood. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Lilah?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you.” Decker smiled at her and led the artist out of the room, escorting him down the hospital corridor. He waited until they were out of Lilah’s earshot.

“I think I dragged you out for nothing, Leo. She was giving me such detailed information about her assailants, I got excited and called you right away. Then she informed me that she never actually saw them with her eyes. Instead she said she did something called imaging with her brain. She swears she could tell me what the perps looked like after they touched her even though she was blindfolded.”

Leo shifted his pad and mug books into his other hand. “You couldn’t be making this up.”

“I’m not creative enough.”

“Was she also imaging you with her touch, Pete?”

Decker felt himself go hot. “She’s glommed onto me.”

Leo sucked in his gut and ran his tongue over his dentures. “I wouldn’t mind her glomming onto me.”

“She’s an incomplete deck, Leo. If I’d known, Marge would be here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck you.”

Both men laughed.

Decker said, “There is a very slight chance that she actually did see these guys with her eyes and just can’t admit it … or is afraid to admit it. Maybe she knows them but imaging is her way of telling me she won’t testify against them. So if you don’t mind, indulge her and me and get some drawings.”

“No problem, Sergeant, I’m an old-timer. Have seen it or heard it all.” Leo peered down the hallway. “I think your deck is about to have a little company. Why don’t I grab some coffee in the cafeteria? Call me when you need me.”

“Fine, Leo.”

Decker watched the figure approach. Tall, thin, lithe. She wore a floor-length, form-fitting, black sequined gown with slits up the sides. The dress sparkled with each movement of her legs. Her face had been powdered white, but her features—except for blood-red lips—were obscured by a black veil that fell to her shoulders. Her feet were housed in spike-heeled pumps rimmed with rhinestones. Yet her gait—her balance—was that of a young fashion model instead of an old woman. She wasn’t merely walking, she was shimmying. She was sashaying.