IT WAS AWFUL.

Worse, it was murder.

Darcy Singer squeezed her eyes shut to try to erase the images from her mind, but it was impossible. When the visions came to her, they always remained. Clear, succinct and in this case, deadly.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to level the beat of her racing heart, she threw aside the blankets covering her and rose from the bed to cross to the bathroom and the light switch. Her hand was trembling when she clicked it on and the sudden glare made her blink, but she didn't pause. Instead she moved straight to the sink and the faucets and the water that she splashed quickly on her face. Yet that didn't help either. The vision couldn't be washed away. It remained firmly etched in her mind's eye.

Lifting her head, oblivious to the droplets of water clinging to her face, she confronted her image in the medicine cabinet mirror and was surprised.

Tousled hair, long and dark. Eyes, gray and wide. Her face, her reflection, looked the same. She couldn't see any changes. And that always amazed her.

When the premonitions came, when the unwanted flashes of someone else's life entered her mind, she expected to look different, be different, but she never was. At least not on the outside. It was only inside that she felt the impact of her psychic revelations.

Still, her reactions to the unbidden images that came to her weren't usually so traumatic. They didn't normally wake her up, make her sweat, or cause her heart to pound. But then the imagery she experienced didn't generally involve murder.

Swallowing, she released her manic grip on the sink to lift and drag a hand through her better than shoulder-length hair. Most recently, in fact, visions hadn't bothered her at all because for the last six months she hadn't had any. And that had given her hope.

A quiet sigh whispered past her lips, and she reached for the towel hanging on the rack beside her. Moving from Minnesota to New Mexico, the so-called "gift of sight" that had been with her for more years than she sometimes wanted to remember had seemed to have left her, and she'd come to believe that the extrasensory part of her life was gone, left behind.

A shudder shook her. But the gift had returned. And with a vengeance.

Burying her face in the towel, she trembled anew remembering the blood, the flash of a knife, and the pain of the man she was certain was now dead.

Her breath caught on a sob, and Darcy fought back tears. A sense of inner sight was something that had always been hers. With uncanny accuracy she could tell when someone was going to call or when a letter would arrive, and becoming a mother had seemed to enhance her psychic skills.

The band aids and iodine would be out before her toddler's screams told her of a fall from a bicycle, a skinned knee, or a scraped elbow. But three years earlier, without warning, the images playing in her head had suddenly, dramatically, and with terrifying intensity changed from her child to that of a stranger's when the youngster's kidnapping made headlines.

Even so, it took two long days for her to work up the courage to go and talk to the Minneapolis Police about the vision in her head. Still, her hesitant involvement with the case led the detectives to the little girl and put the man responsible behind bars. It also resulted in a request for her assistance in a murder investigation.

Pleased, flattered and flushed with success and a happy ending, her agreement to help was automatic. Yet, with no criminal investigation experience and little knowledge of her precognitive powers, she couldn't have understood or realized what she was letting herself in for. She hadn't known that, due to her involvement with the police and the case, her marriage would end and her life would come apart.

Darcy slowly hung up the towel and put her back to her reflection in the mirror.

Her husband hadn't been able to cope with the nightmares, the constant police presence in their home, the notoriety of her psychic skills in the press, or her fears. She'd needed psychiatric counseling to learn to cope with her inner demons herself, but by then the wedding vows had been forgotten. Dan had left both she and their child behind for a new job in a new city far away.

Thinking of Ryan, Darcy was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see her son, to make sure he was all right, but rushing down the hall to look in his room, she found him safe and totally unaffected by her nightmare. He was sleeping peacefully, untouched by the horror that had come into her mind. But he would be.

Smothering a sigh of defeat, she reached down to brush the hair from Ryan's forehead before sinking onto the bed beside him. Whether she wanted it or not, her five-year-old son would feel the impact of what she'd seen because she couldn't keep what she'd witnessed in the vision to herself. She had to share it with the police.

Pulling her hand away, fighting the dread settling in a tight knot in her stomach, she sat back and was instantly joined by a black cat that leapt straight into her lap. Purring loudly, the feline demanded immediate attention by butting her chin with its head, and Darcy was happy to give it.

Relieved by the interruption, grateful for something to hold on to, she found comfort in the affection and soft fur of an old friend. Forehead to forehead, she stroked the sleek body and hugged the lean and supple strength of the cat to her, but she couldn't stop the tremor from shaking her. She couldn't prevent the icy fingers of fear from touching her skin.

"It's starting again, Simon," she whispered softly. "Just when I thought it was over."

A rough pink tongue brushed her cheek briefly in understanding, and Darcy smiled and squeezed her pet of ten years tightly to her. The two of them had been through the psychic nightmare together before, and it was some consolation to know she wouldn't be alone on entering it again.

"It's going to be easier this time, though, right, cat?"

A sound somewhere between a meow and a squeak was taken as acquiescence, and Darcy stood to carry Simon to the window to look out over the sleeping neighborhood.

Dawn was just starting to color the sky, and the soft light blended with that of the fading moon's to illuminate the adobe and stucco houses on the street. All the homes were set in the traditional Spanish lines of old-time haciendas, and a smile lifted Darcy's lips.

The city of Albuquerque. It was approximately the same size as Minneapolis, at least as far as population. It had about as many people within its borders, but the atmosphere within the southern city was different.

It was warmer, in climate and in reception to her efforts as a struggling artist, and the blend of English and Spanish cultures of her new home appealed to her. But more, much more, Albuquerque was a fresh start, a chance to try again and an opportunity to be normal. Her smile faded. But one dream had proven that was impossible. Or, had it?

Nuzzling her cheek against Simon's vibrating body, Darcy dared to wonder if she could ignore the terror she'd seen in her mind's eye. She'd tried that route once before. She'd tried very hard to forget what visions she saw, and the memory of that effort made her shudder.

Suppressing a vision had made it worse. Yet Dan had wanted her to-- avoid, stay detached, wish it all away, but the nightmares borne of evasion had made that futile.

Turning away from the window, she looked again to Ryan sleeping on the bed. She wanted to protect him, and she would. But hiding wasn't living, ignoring wasn't coping. She wouldn't--couldn't--run this time. It had taken counseling to teach her avoidance solved nothing except to delay the inevitable. What was happening to her again had to be faced head on. She had to go to the police.

Lifting her chin unconsciously at the challenge, Darcy moved silently back into the dark hallway of her new home and toward her own bed. Yet she knew sleep was something she'd get no more of. It would be better to shower and prepare for the day ahead.

In a few hours, she'd call Liz and explain that she'd be late getting to the shop, and then, after she dropped Ryan off at school, she'd go to the police station and report her dream. If she couldn't help this victim, she might be able to help the next, and in the process, perhaps, she could make some more new friends.

Setting Simon on her bed, she flicked on the lamp on her nightstand and turned to the dresser and the closet to pick out what she'd wear for the day. Becoming pals with the Albuquerque Police was obviously going to be a necessity. Her mind wouldn't have it any other way, but at least this time she was ready for it and for them.

She was stronger than she had been, understood more about herself, her gift, and she knew how to deal with what lay ahead.

Working with the police wouldn't be easy and murder wasn't and never would be pleasant, but she could handle both. She wouldn't be defeated by the sight, by herself or by anyone who knew her. Not this time. That was all in the past. In the present and in the future she'd work within the system and continue on with her life and not waste time and energy worrying about something she couldn't change--she could see things in her head that no one else could.

She had the opportunity and the insight to try to stop a murderer. She just hoped the Albuquerque Police Department was ready and willing to accept her assistance in getting the killer off the street. \t

While the uniforms the police wore were of a different color, the badges, the guns and the thick black belts strapped to every officer's waist were identical to those used up north. And the faces were identical, too.

Darcy thought it was the eyes, the window to the soul, that gave the men and women of law enforcement the unique look that distinguished them as cops. The grim reality they witnessed and were part of every day never left them. It was always there, if the observer cared to get close enough to see it.

Moving toward the desk and a uniformed officer who wore the insignia of sergeant on his sleeves, Darcy took a deep breath and immediately became aware of the other commonality this station house had with the one she'd known previously. The smell.

The lingering pine aroma of scrubbing ingredients that kept the walls and floors clean mixed in a peculiar blend with human sweat, brewing coffee and other odors better left unnamed.

"Can I help you?" the sergeant asked, the weight of years showing around his waist and in the gray blending with his otherwise brown hair.

"Yes, my name is Darcy Singer. I'd like to speak to one of your detectives about a murder."

The sergeant didn't so much as blink. That was one of the things she'd always admired about police officers and detectives. Their cool, their calm, their ability to control their emotions--and their expressions. It was training that allowed them to stay passive, at least on the outside, and it was her own training, her own experience, that kept her hand steady as she held out a business card to him.

"I'm new to Albuquerque, but I've previously worked with the Minneapolis Police Department." She pointed to the card he'd taken. "That's the name of the detective I worked with. If you'd call, you can verify what I'm telling you, but in the meantime, I'd appreciate being referred to someone within your department. Time may be important."

The sergeant with the name tag of O'Donnell pinned to his shirt front frowned at the card. "Just how was it that you worked with the Minneapolis Police? Are you a police officer?"

"No, I'm a psychic, and last night I saw a man murdered here in Albuquerque." She didn't look away when O'Donnell's gaze shot back to her, and she braced herself for a laugh, a dismissal or even an angry retort, but O'Donnell did none of those things.

He merely stared at her, seeming to search her face for some sign of deceit or trickery, and when he apparently found none, he reached for the phone.

In moments Darcy was making her way down a hallway toward the homicide department and a detective by the name of Tom Mason, and returning the friendly nod of a passing officer, she felt relief washing away the doubts that had followed her into the station house. The first hurdle had been passed. She hadn't been laughed out the door. Not yet. And if Mason was anything like O'Donnell, silently skeptical but willing to listen, she didn't think she would be.

Hopeful of easy acceptance, she found and stepped through the doorway of the room labeled "Homicide" and watched a man shove away from a desk to greet her.

He was big, easily six foot, and wide with a barrel chest and thick neck. His hair was thinning and brown, his eyes dark and wary, and his age was fortyish. The suit he wore was, of necessity, tailored to fit his bullish size, and the tie at his throat was red. Dark red, like blood.

Darcy suppressed a shudder as he stepped closer. "Detective Mason?"

"That's me," he agreed. "Darcy Singer?"

She accepted the hand he extended to her. "Yes."

"Come on in," he said, gesturing her forward and glancing briefly at the two men who sat at desks on either side of the door. "Welcome to Albuquerque Homicide. I hear you want to tell me about a murder."

"Yes, Sergeant O'Donnell told you I was a psychic," she confirmed. "Last night I saw a man killed in a dream."

"A dream?" Mason repeated.

It was impossible not to hear the smothered snicker from her right, unrealistic to pretend the smile pulling at Mason's lips was anything but disbelieving amusement, but Darcy held her ground. Angling her chin slightly and not looking away from the mocking glow in his gaze, she nodded calmly even if her grip on the purse she was carrying tightened. "Yes, Detective, a dream. May I tell you about it?"

Mason shrugged and pointed toward a desk, and turning to lead the way across the room, left Darcy to take a deep breath before following in his wake. The hope she'd felt for an easy beginning was dimming. The ready acceptance she'd wanted to find was not in the offing, and smothering a sigh, she slipped into a chair beside Mason's desk. Without a doubt she knew it was going to be a long morning.

Copyright © 1998 by Kimberly Grey