Fatal Vision

Morgan Smith ran to catch the subway train. She reached the door and squeezed through just as it closed. The next train wouldn't have arrived for another twenty minutes and she was already later going home than usual. Someday, she’d be her own boss instead of a clerk and closing time would be closing time.

Moving toward a seat at the back of the car, she stopped abruptly as she hit a wall of emotional energy of such power and darkness that she shivered in the overly warm subway car. A wave of dizziness swept over her. She moaned in distress and reached for a strap to keep from falling.

"Here, miss," a female voice called from behind her, "you look as if you need to sit down."

Morgan turned to a motherly woman who patted the seat beside her in invitation.

Attempting a smile, Morgan sank into the proffered seat and whispered "thank you" to the Good Samaritan. Feeling the need to explain her weakness with something mundane, she offered, "I must be more tired than I thought."

The sympathetic woman nodded and turned her attention back to the knitting in her lap.

The niceties taken care of, Morgan closed her eyes and turned her mind inward, knowing from past experiences the nausea and dizziness would settle more quickly that way. Fighting the visions did no good, so she'd learned how to control them. She had learned at an early age she wasn’t the same as everyone else. She had a connection to a different level of communication with the world around her. After much trial and error, she'd also learned not to ignore the extra sense. The times she had, had ended in disaster.

Morgan centered herself and concentrated, seeking the source of the dark emotions. Was the dangerous person near or far? More importantly, was he a threat to her and everyone in this car?
Breathing shallowly, she pulled images out of the maelstrom in her mind. The colors of the energy were dark so this danger was near. If the danger were farther away, the images would be shadowy, more grays and sepias like old-fashioned tintypes. These colors were black, brown, purple...and blood red. Murder. Pale blue eyes wide open in shock. Hands around a woman’s neck. Death.

Morgan gasped.

The woman next to Morgan cast a wary glance her way then inched closer to the window of the subway car.

Get a grip, Morgan. Before you scare the whole darn car.

Her inner voice told her the danger wasn’t directed toward her or anyone near. If the voice switched from "you" to "us," then she would start to worry. The little voice in her head was all about immediate survival. Right now, Morgan needed to chill out.

She glanced at her seatmate and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Cautiously, Morgan looked around the car, seeking with all her God-given senses. The hands which choked the woman in her mind’s eye were here in this car. Now all she had to do was find the man to whom they belonged.

Yeah right, Morgan. Then what are you going to do, call Ghostbusters? ‘Cause who else would believe you?

Spotting several young men in black leather, she opened her mind, fully letting in all sorts of images—and found themes common to most hormonal young men. Violence. Sex. But no death.

As she directed her gaze and mind toward the other end of the car, she found the wall of blackness and ice once again.

The man looked so normal—no, not normal—civilized with his Italian silk sports coat and neatly combed blond hair. He could have been any businessman going home after a long day at work, carrying his brown leather satchel. But he wasn't. He was a murderer, and Morgan was the only person in the world who knew.

Well, what do you do now, Morgan? You've found him. How do you explain it to the police? You psyched him out? Read it in your tea leaves? Saw him in your crystal ball?

She shook her head. No matter how much ridicule she had withstood in the past, she knew she'd have to go to the police. If for no other reason than the dead woman was all alone and deserved better than rotting in her home like unwanted garbage. It could be days, Morgan sensed, before the victim would be found. Plus, she could never live with herself if she allowed a murderer to go free.

So, are you going to make a citizen's arrest? Tackle him and hold him for the police?

No, much better to memorize his looks and watch where he gets off, then go to the police.

Staring at the killer, she imprinted his face on her mind. She would never forget him just as she’d never forget the images soaring through her mind. The house. The dead woman, Willie. Yes, her name was Willie Fairchild. The stolen money and jewelry in his messenger bag. The file. Piles of nickles. More death to come. Yes, it was imperative to let the police know. Another life was in immediate danger.

Morgan closed off her mind like a door banging shut. As if the murderer had heard the psychic door slam, he looked directly at her. No! She breathed a sigh of relief as his cold, dark stare moved away. He was merely scanning the car. She turned her head away from him. She felt a weak probing from the man just before she closed her mind. He, too, had psi abilities, but not on the level of hers. Thank God. He couldn't read her. She was safe.