Page 9 of No Surrender
“You’re a lifesaver,” Simon said as he paid the bill.
“Happy to help—and keep you out of trouble.” Tracey was the first friend Simon had made when he moved to Myrtle Beach, and he considered her a sister.
Samir had the lattes ready and the sweet rolls packed in record time. Tracey stepped away from the register long enough to find one of their delivery sweatshirts in the back and handed it off. “Good luck,” she told him.
Simon flipped the hood up and took the tray with the food and drinks. He kept his head down, intentionally slouching and changing his gait. When he got close to the snarl of reporters, he held his breath, but they parted to let him through without comment, paying no attention.
Pete looked up when Simon entered. “We didn’t order—”
“Yeah, we did.” Simon closed and locked the door behind him, raised his head, and walked back to the small break room before shedding the sweatshirt and setting down the tray. He wondered if the reporters would notice that the delivery guy never came out—and what he’d need to do tomorrow to get by the pack that were dissuaded from coming inside by his wardings.
“I won’t turn down a latte or two—unless all four are yours?” Pete joked, brushing a lock of sandy blond hair out of his blue eyes. He was in his early twenties—ten years younger than Simon and Vic—and still gave off a college student vibe, although he’d finished his degree.
“Don’t worry—two are for you. And Tracey’s offered to deliver lunch, so neither of us have to brave the scary reporters.”
“I already called Mitch to see if he could get them to quit blocking the door,” Pete replied, naming the Boardwalk Business Association’s manager. “Customers shouldn’t have to elbow their way through the paparazzi to come in for their appointments.”
“No, they shouldn’t.” Simon passed Pete’s drink to him and tried to relax as he took a sip of his own. “Good thing the nuisance spell Gabriella did for us makes reporters not want to come inside. The sidewalk is public, so she couldn’t do anything about them hanging around out there, sadly. Did they hassle you when you opened the shop?”
“Not once I convinced them that I wasn’t you. I’m not sure what they think you’re going to tell them. It’s not like you could talk about the trial.”
“I imagine they’re hoping I’d slip and give them a sound bite. It’s not my first media clusterfuck.” Simon shrugged.
He had lost his university teaching position in Columbia when a fundamentalist father objected to his folklore and mythology classes. He’d weathered that dumpster fire and the breakup with a fellow professor who feared Simon’s “bad press” might hurt his shot at tenure. Simon had come to Myrtle Beach to recover and ended up with a new career and new love.
“I figured that I could cover your tours for a few days until the hubbub dies down if you want,” Pete offered.
“Thanks. Let’s see how it goes and decide. When’s my first appointment?”
“You’ve got Lois McKenzie at ten for a private séance, three more appointments after lunch for psychic readings, and a phone call with Sally Anne Roberts at Grand Strand Sculpture Gardens to set up the Christmas ghost stories program.”
Simon had written two books about local ghosts and urban legends and was working on pulling together a third. He was a popular speaker with the library and nearby museums, as well as historic places like the gardens that staged special events at the holidays.
“Has Ms. McKenzie been in before?” Simon asked, thinking the name sounded familiar.
“I don’t think so,” Pete replied. “I didn’t get that impression from her when she booked the appointment.”
“I’m going to check my email before she gets here.” He started toward the office in the back and stumbled as pain stabbed through his temples. Simon barely managed to set the coffee on the counter before he staggered and nearly fell.
“Simon?”
“Vision,” he replied through gritted teeth.
Pete came around the counter and steadied Simon, walking with him to the couch in the office. Simon sank down wordlessly and leaned forward with his head in his hands, trying to focus his attention through the pain, so he didn’t miss what the vision was trying to tell him.
He saw a baseball game in progress, with players in old-fashioned uniforms. Simon wasn’t a big enough fan to recognize the team, but he noted the colors and the swordfish logo. His view narrowed to the batter, a young dark-haired man with expressive eyes and a thin mustache who wore the number 12 on his shirt.
As quickly as the vision came, it vanished, leaving Simon shaken and his head pounding. Pete came back into the office with a bottle of water, Simon’s abandoned coffee cup, and a couple of ibuprofen.
“Here. This should help. Lie down until your head feels better. I’ve worked with you long enough to know the aftereffects of one of your visions.”
“Thanks. You okay up front for a while?” Simon swallowed the pills, drained the water bottle, and took a big gulp of coffee. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting for the headache to fade.
“Yeah. It’s been slow so far. I thought I saw Mitch heading this way, so maybe the reporters will back off after he rips them a new one.” The expectation in Pete’s voice made Simon smile, despite the circumstances.
“Okay. Thanks. You’re the best.”
Pete pulled the door mostly closed behind him, leaving Simon in the near-darkness of the office. After twenty minutes, the liquids and pain killer kicked in, and his headache began to fade. Once the throbbing stopped, Simon could think again, leaving him to puzzle out the unusual images.
