Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 34

Zandra figures the officer at the door will gain entry into the apartment in about 30 seconds. She clenches the lawnmower knife and burns a few precious seconds thinking. Fighting her way out? Not an option. Misdirection? Her specialty.

Zandra stands and takes two steps to the far side of the kitchen. It puts her out of reach of the flashlight, but just barely. Her hand pops open the circuit breaker panel in the wall. She switches off the main breaker, killing any chance of the officer turning the lights on.

She turns and grabs a copy of the Stevens Point Journal off the counter. It's the previous week's edition, probably the last one before her name is captured in bold on the front page. Using the lawnmower knife, she shreds a few pages into strips. She rolls the strips into a ball, then puts it to a lighted match.

Before the flames can reach her fingers, Zandra hurls the flaming paper into the living room. It falls on the fluff of the couch. Within seconds, the stench of smoldering plastic fluff fills the room.

The smoke from the couch cloaks her from the flashlight, if only because of the confusion it causes. The white dot from the flashlight frantically searches the room, trying to make out what just happened. Zandra slips into position unnoticed in an open closet next to the front door.

The door glides open. The officer takes a moment to clear the entry before rushing inside to extinguish the fire. That allows just enough time for Zandra to slip out the front door from inside the closet. She turns and latches the lock, sealing the officer inside.

There's a barely a second to catch her breath before Zandra hears a voice a few feet away.

"Hey, hey, stop," the officer at the window shouts. He sears Zandra's eyes with the beam from his flashlight.

The bright light overloads Zandra's senses and makes it hard to think. Her feet freeze in place, struggling to keep her balance as her perception of up and down melts in the beam.

"Drop the knife," the officer says. He's a good 30 feet away.

Perception and guts, perception and guts. All of life is perception and guts. When one doesn't work, go with the other.

Zandra's guts tell her to re-program the narrative in the officer's head. Beats an unfair fight.

"Thank goodness you're here, officer. Some strange, young woman tried to break into my apartment through the window a few minutes ago," Zandra says, referencing Abby. She lets her voice crack and wail. Does her best to play the role of a confused old woman. It's not that far of a stretch. "It shook me up so bad, I dropped a cigarette on my couch. Then some awful man came through my door. I left as quick as I could."

The officer shifts his feet in the gravel. Thinks for a second.

"You live here? This is a crime scene," the officer says.

Must not know who I am. Good.

"Of course I live here," Zandra says, shielding her eyes from the beam. She recites Steve's address.

"You went into the wrong apartment," the officer says. He lowers the beam. "Let's see some ID. And drop that knife already."

Zandra lets the lawnmower knife fall to the ground. The officer recovers it and slips it into a loose pouch on the back of his belt. He waits while she digs through her pockets for a state ID card. Her wallet contains several, but only one uses her genuine address. Never hurts to carry fakes. It's no coincidence she cited Steve's address.

A furious knock at the window interrupts Zandra handing over the fake ID card. It's the officer inside. The noxious fumes must be getting to him. It's a cheap couch.

"Stay here," the officer outside says to Zandra. He radios for a fire crew before hunching over to help his partner through the window.

Zandra eyes the pouch on the officer's belt. Thinks about how easily the human brain can become focused on only one thing, especially in an emergency. Despite their training, not even police officers are immune 100 percent of the time. And despite her arthritis, the hand will always be quicker than the eye. She takes a step forward and rolls the dice by slipping two fingers inside the pouch, working as gently as taking someone's pulse at a séance.

It only takes a moment, but that's all Zandra needs. When the officers turn to face her, both she and the knife are gone.