Heed the Predictor

By Sally Breslin

Margaret “Meg” Thorne never has had a problem attracting men, yet she’s never been in a serious relationship or experienced mutual love...because of "the curse." Her family refers to it as a “gift,” but to Meg, it’s always been a curse, a reason to send people fleeing in fear from her...a reason to keep her moving from town to town and never settling down.

Until she meets Calder.

Calder York is an author whose books deal with exposing charlatans who claim to have extraordinary powers. When his mother informs him of the young woman with “hypnotic green eyes” who recently moved into her mobile-home park – a woman whose nickname is “The Predictor” because she is rumored to be able to predict the exact date, time and way in which each person will die – Calder’s interest is piqued. Determined to meet this woman and make her the subject of his next book, he leaves New York and travels to the small town in New Hampshire.

Immediately, he is attracted to Meg, and he’s surprised when she professes to feel the same way about him. But neither one is prepared for the hell that falling for each other is about to put them through.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: If you are looking for a “feels-good” romance, this definitely isn’t it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sally Breslin
• Release date: Nov 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311180339

Sally Breslin

Sally A. Breslin was born and raised in New Hampshire, where she still resides, so she is a true New Englander through and through.She developed a passion for writing at a young age and began keeping a daily journal when she was only 12, which she has continued to do ever since. She says her journals are like having her own time machine because, for example, she can look up what she ate for breakfast or watched on TV on any given day.Her work first was published in the 1960s when she became a stringer for a New York-based magazine called DATEBOOK, which provided her with the opportunity to interview many of the famous entertainers of that era. For over 20 years, she worked as a newspaper correspondent and photographer for a number of New Hampshire-based newspapers, covering everything from presidential primaries to local bake sales.From 1984 –2013 she also interpreted dreams in her weekly newspaper columns, “What Do Your Dreams Mean?” and "Dreams...with Sally Breslin," which led to a regular spot on WJYY Radio as “The Dream Lady,” as well as numerous other guest spots on radio shows across the country. She also was contacted by the FX Network in the early ‘90s and was offered a regular segment on its new morning show, “Breakfast Time,” with Tom Bergeron – which she turned down because it would have required her to move to New York.From 1994 – 2016 she wrote a weekly humor column, "My Life," which was published in six New England newspapers. In 1996, she was named the New Hampshire Press Association’s columnist of the year.She also has taught humor-writing classes for Concord Community Education.Her short stories have been published in dozens of magazines and also in the books: "A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul," "Chicken Soup for the Soul at Christmas," "The Dog Really Did That?," and "Belly Laughs and Babies," for which she won a national humor-writing contest.She currently writes a syndicated humor column, “Alive and Kidding,” for the Senior Wire News Service in Colorado, and a local humor column, “Sally’s World,” for the Senior Beacon newspaper in New Hampshire.Her humor columns, both new and archived, can be read on her blog: www.sallythedreamlady.com.Sally’s first novel, "There’s a Tick in my Underwear!," which is based on her 1962 journal, is a humorous coming-of-age story about wilderness camping and young love. She also has written two suspense novels, “Heed the Predictor” and the sequel, “Conceal the Predictor,” about a young woman who knows the exact date, time and way in which every person she meets will die.She was married to her late husband Joe for 41 years, and currently resides out in the country with her two guard dogs. She enjoys walking two miles every day, candlepin bowling, playing Word Whomp online and riding on old-fashioned wooden roller coasters.

Book preview

HEED THE PREDICTOR

Sally A. Breslin

Copyright  2014 Sally A. Breslin

(Revised in 2022)

Cover photo by Ali Pazani

This book is a work of fiction. Although some of the cities and locations actually exist, they are used in a fictitious manner for purposes of this work. All characters also are works of fiction. Any names or characteristics similar to those of any person, past or present, are purely coincidental.

Dedicated in loving memory of

Joe Breslin

(1948 - 2012)

CHAPTER ONE

1999

So, when can I expect your next manuscript…or at least a draft? Calder York’s agent, Richard, was on the phone. You know you’re under contract for another book by the end of the year…don’t you?

I know, I know, Calder said as his mind raced to come up with an answer that wouldn’t send Richard rushing to the pharmacy to stock up on antacid. I have a really great subject for this one and I’m working on the outline. But I’m off to an appointment right now. I’ll get back to you later.

Before Richard could respond, Calder hung up.

The truth was, he had no clue what to write about, and time too rapidly was ticking away. It was August, so that meant he had only four months to produce a minimum of 60,000 words that not only would please both his agent and his publisher, but also his readers. His fans had turned his last three books into modest bestsellers that had earned him enough money to not only pay his rent every month, but also to purchase his dream car, a vintage 1965 Ford Mustang. And now, judging from the amount of email he was receiving on a daily basis, people were becoming impatient to read more of his work.

The problem was, he was experiencing a severe case – no, he thought, make that a terminal case because it was going to be the death of his career – of writer’s block. He knew he needed to write something fresh and exciting; something that would become an instant bestseller…and if all went well, even incite a bidding war for the movie rights.

Sure, he thought, dream on. Might as well go purchase a couple lottery tickets, too, while I’m at it. I have about as much chance of getting rich from that as I do from writing my next manuscript.

Calder had made a career of writing books and articles based on his beliefs – or lack thereof – concerning the supernatural and psychic phenomena. His personal mission was to find a genuine psychic, clairvoyant or medium; someone whose so-called powers he couldn’t debunk. There had been only two or three he’d encountered over the years who’d managed to even temporarily convince him they might be on the level…but they had turned out to be fakes, just like all of the others.

And so his quest continued.

Which was why, at that moment, he was heading to a taping of the popular television show, Spiritual Reconnections, hosted by Theo Ravi, a self-professed medium who supposedly could communicate with the dead. On TV, the man’s abilities seemed amazing, but Calder wanted – needed – to actually see him in action. He hoped if this Ravi guy did turn out to be an authentic medium, he might make an intriguing subject to fill the currently blank pages of his next book…and save his career.

Two hours later, 90 minutes of which Calder had spent standing on a New York City sidewalk in 93-degree heat, he eyed the seemingly endless line of people that snaked ahead of him as he waited to get into the taping. He was certain every person there was hoping he or she would be among the lucky audience members Theo Ravi would select for a spiritual reunion with some dear, departed loved one. Calder felt sorry for all of them, likening them to a school of fish, with Ravi, the hungry shark, circling them and waiting to feast on their weaknesses. But Calder still clung to a sliver of hope the man would prove him wrong and by some miracle, turn out to be the real deal.

The line, which stretched past a row of old brick buildings, several of which had fallen victim to graffiti artists, hadn’t moved as much as an inch in over an hour. Calder used the back of his hand to wipe the beads of perspiration that kept sprouting on his forehead. The heat made him think about a joke Johnny Carson once had told on the old Tonight Show: It was SO hot out today, chickens were seen lining up in front of KFC and begging to be plucked!

Calder chuckled out loud at the thought, which caused the woman in front of him to turn and look at him. She was small in stature, the top of her head barely reaching the nipples on his six-foot frame. Her curly gray hair outlined a thin face, and silver-rimmed glasses sat on the tip of her nose.

Hot out here today, she said.

Calder nodded. That it is. The sidewalk makes it feel even worse because it holds the heat. I can feel it right through the soles of my shoes. I wish this line would start moving so we can get inside the air-conditioned studio.

I just hope all of this waiting and sweating will be worth it, she said, fanning herself with her hand. I came here all the way from Massachusetts because I’m hoping to be reunited with my husband, Eddie. It’s been three years since he passed, and I still can’t get on with my life until I know he’s truly at peace. She looked up at Calder, and her eyes, filled with undisguised sympathy, met his. Who are you hoping to reconnect with?

My brother, Michael, he said. He died a year ago. He was hiking and slipped on some rocks. Ended up falling over the edge of a hundred-foot cliff.

Oh my, that’s terrible! Was he a young man?

Thirty.

She shook her head and sighed. My Eddie was seventy-six and died from cancer – lung cancer. He smoked two packs a day, and no matter how much I begged him to quit, he just brushed me off and told me to quit nagging! He thought he was indestructible.

I guess we’re all guilty of thinking that way, Calder said.

The woman was silent for a moment before she said, Maybe our seats are close to each other? I’m in row six, seat number twelve.

Calder glanced at the ticket in his hand. Row ten, seat three.

That’s too bad, she said. I’m here all alone and it would be nice to sit next to someone I’ve already met instead of total strangers.

* * * *

The TV studio was much smaller than Calder had imagined it would be. It also was much hotter, thanks to all of the lights. There were only fourteen rows of seats, so, to his disappointment, row ten nearly was at the back of the room.

He’d barely folded himself into the theater-style cushioned seat when the audience members, the majority of whom were female, suddenly broke into cheers and applause. Calder leaned forward and focused on the front of the studio where Ravi, the star of the show, now stood on a platform that served as a makeshift stage. He looked much shorter in person than he did on TV, Calder thought, only about 5’4", with dark hair pulled back in a long ponytail. His skin was olive-colored and pitted, and he wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, with black trousers.

Welcome, everyone, Ravi, nodding and smiling, greeted the audience. I realize that each and every one of you here is hoping to reconnect with a loved one who has departed in the physical sense, but as you know, I cannot control which spirits will come through to me and make their presence known today. It is completely random. So I must apologize in advance if your loved one doesn’t appear to me, for I know how disappointed you will be.

Calder rolled his eyes.

So let’s get started right away. Already, there is a spirit that seems very eager to reconnect with someone here. I am seeing a man, and elderly man, who has passed. His name begins with the letter E. His eyes briefly scanned the audience. I am searching for his widow.

Four rows in front of Calder, the woman he’d met while waiting in line rose. My husband’s name was Eddie, she said to Ravi.

He is holding up three fingers to me. Is that number significant to you?

Calder couldn’t help but think there was a certain finger he’d like to hold up to Ravi at that moment. He then scolded himself for so hastily judging the man and not allowing him the benefit of the doubt.

Yes! the woman answered. "The number three is significant! My Eddie passed away three years ago!"

Ravi nodded and closed his eyes, apparently attempting to concentrate on what the spirit was saying to him. He is putting his hands around his throat. That is a sign to me that he was struggling to breathe at some point, gasping for breath.

Oh, my goodness! the woman responded, her tone filled with awe. He had lung cancer and was on oxygen prior to his death!

Ravi cupped his right hand over his ear and smiled, as if he were enjoying a private joke with the alleged spirit. Eddie said to tell you he should have listened to you when you told him to quit smoking!

Before the woman could respond, Ravi added, He says he is fine, so he wants you to be happy and stop worrying about him. He also is telling me to ask you about the bright green ribbon.

The woman gasped, her right hand flying up to her chest. I’m the only one who knows about that! In memory of him, I tied a green ribbon, his favorite color, around the base of the rosebush he planted for me on our fiftieth wedding anniversary!

He wants you to know he appreciates it and that seeing it makes him smile.

I’m so relieved to know he is truly at peace now, the woman said, her voice trembling with emotion. Thank you so much!

Ravi offered her a satisfied nod, then said, Another voice, a strong male one, is coming through to me loud and clear. His name is Michael and he’s young, in his late twenties or early thirties.

When no one responded, his eyes swept over the audience. I am envisioning him hiking, which he enjoyed. He’s also telling me his brother is here today.

Still, no response. Calder suppressed a defeated groan as Ravi then did exactly what he’d hoped he wouldn’t do…he looked directly at him.

You, sir, in row ten, Ravi said. "Michael is telling me you are his brother. In fact, he is insisting you are. Am I correct?"

One of the cameramen swung around to zoom in on him and Calder saw his own face, larger than life, on one of the overhead monitors. He shook his head. Sorry, there must be some mistake. I don’t have a brother. I’m an only child.

The woman Calder had met in line, who still was standing, turned to stare at him, her mouth falling open.

I see Michael losing his footing and plunging to his death, Ravi persisted. He removed a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed his face with it.

Calder smiled, secretly enjoying watching him squirm. He wasn’t enjoying, however, the fact that Ravi, the man he’d hoped would be the subject of his next book, was nothing more than just another fake, using the same old tried-and-true psychic techniques he’d witnessed at least a dozen times before.

It was clear to Calder that, as usual, the woman he’d met while waiting in line was directly connected to Ravi. The innocent-looking old lady was a plant, gathering information for the phony psychic, most likely for some financial reward. Calder suspected she’d been wearing a wire or some type of transmitting device that enabled Ravi or one of his accomplices to eavesdrop on their conversation. That was why she had asked him about his seat number. Ravi obviously wanted to know exactly which audience members were seated where, so he could zero in on them. Heck, for all Calder knew, the old lady was Ravi’s mother. He was willing to bet there had been at least another four or five similar plants scattered throughout the waiting line.

Are you certain you don’t have a brother named Michael? Ravi’s voice, now louder, interrupted Calder’s thoughts.

A male audience member on the far side of the studio stood up. My brother’s name was Michael, he said. Maybe it’s him? But he was sixty when he died.

No, no, this Michael definitely is much younger, Ravi said, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. His eyes remained fixed on Calder. Are you positive it’s not your brother who is talking to me?

Calder sighed for effect. Sorry, but like I told you, I’m an only child.

He spoke the truth. He’d made up the story about having a brother who’d fallen off a cliff.

Ravi’s chin rose and he narrowed his eyes at him. He then looked away, took a deep breath, smiled at the audience and said, Well, Michael is backing away now, and someone else seems very eager to get through to a loved one. I’m hearing a woman whose name is either Beth or Betty telling me she urgently needs to deliver a message to her daughter.

* * * * *

When Calder was desperate for ideas for his books, he usually called the most creative person he knew – a woman who’d made a successful career of writing books and articles – a woman to whom he could whine and complain and not feel embarrassed.

He picked up the phone and called his mother.

Calder! her tone did not disguise her delight. It’s not my birthday yet, is it?

He chuckled. I know it’s been a while, Mom. Truth is, I need some creative input. My next book is due in only four months and Richard is breathing down my neck. But I’m drawing a blank. I’m really desperate. Any ideas?

How have you been? she answered, ignoring his question. Have you been getting enough vitamin C? The cold and flu season will be here before you know it.

I’m fine, Mom. I drink plenty of orange juice. I haven’t had a cold in three years.

Well, this could be the year your body decides to make up for the last three, so never take your good health for granted. According to the experts, this is going to be a bad one for the flu. Maybe you should think about getting a flu shot.

Calder sighed. Mom, I’m thirty-five. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about me, okay? So, back to my reason for calling…do you have any ideas at all for my next book? I’m really getting stressed about my deadline.

There was silence on the other end for several long moments before his mother said, "Actually, it’s funny you should call and ask me that question because there is something I just recently heard about...something I think is really…intriguing. Is it possible for you to come up here and stay for a while? I have a gut feeling that by the time you leave, you’ll have plenty of fodder for a bestseller."

You want me to come all the way up to New Hampshire? he asked, dreading the nearly five-hour drive from New York. The last time he’d driven on what he considered to be the world’s most boring highway – the main route to his mother’s – he’d been stuck in the center lane between two eighteen-wheelers for at least an hour and had felt like the filling in a metal sandwich. It would really help if you could give me a hint about this so-called ‘fodder’ of yours.

I’d rather not get into it over the phone, she said. "But I can tell you it’s happening right here in my mobile-home park. I honestly think it’s something you should investigate for yourself, in person...and soon."

Her vagueness about the subject matter made him suspicious she might be using his desperation as a convenient means in which to lure him to New Hampshire for a long-overdue visit.

"If this story is so great, then why haven’t you written about it yourself?" he asked.

Because I’d prefer to stick with writing my romance novels. They have been paying my bills for years and God willing, they will continue to do so for years to come. This is more up your alley anyway. You’re the one who’s so interested in psychic phenomena and all of that hocus-pocus stuff.

Calder was both intrigued and irritated. If, as his mother said, she had this great story idea for him, why hadn’t she called and told him about it before this? If he hadn’t called her, he wondered, would she even have mentioned it at all? He knew his mother’s mobile-home park contained a plethora of colorful characters, but was it possible one of them actually possessed some legitimate psychic powers and might be worthy of an entire book?

I sure wish you’d have told me about this sooner, Mom, he said. I mean, I’m under a pretty tight deadline now.

Well, I’m sorry, but she’s lived here for only a few weeks.

She? he repeated.

See you tomorrow? Her words told him the conversation was over.

He sighed. I’ll go pack.

* * * * *

Calder had grown up in New Hampshire’s largest city, Manchester. He’d even gone to college in the state, where he’d majored in journalism. After graduation, he’d landed a job as a correspondent with a weekly small-town newspaper that paid him only minimum wage. As a result, he’d been forced to share an apartment with two of his college buddies in an area of Manchester where most of his neighbors kept bail bondsmen on speed dial. But in his free time, when he wasn’t interviewing the local blue-ribbon winners at the county fair or the fire chief who was about to retire after contributing forty years of his life to the department, he was working on his first book.

It took nearly ten years of rejections and rewrites, but that book – which explained how things like creaking floors, drawers that popped open, lights that flickered, and all of the other things that went bump in the night could be attributed to everyday occurrences rather than ghosts or spirits – finally had landed him an agent, a publishing contract…and a new life in New York.

Now, three books and four years later, he was back in New Hampshire for only the fourth time since he’d left.

His mother lived in a small town about eighteen miles north of Manchester, in a sprawling mobile-home park completely surrounded by woods. There were about 120 homes in the park, but the lots were large, about 100 feet wide, most with broad areas of green grass and trees such as fir, pine and maple. His mother had moved there back in 1987, after his father passed away from a sudden heart attack. She sold their house in Manchester and then paid cash for the mobile home.

She was strict about people calling her residence either a mobile home or a manufactured home and not a trailer. A trailer, she always emphasized, was something you towed behind a truck and loaded with things like lumber or furniture. Also, she was deeply offended by the term, trailer-park trash. Whenever she watched one of those TV talk shows where women either were strippers, cheating on their husbands, or having paternity tests done on six different men to find out which one had fathered their child, and an audience member stood up and shouted something like, Tell me, do you live in a double-wide or a single-wide trailer? his mother would all but toss a shoe at the TV screen.

Calder drove up the steep hill into the mobile-home park and pulled into his mother’s dirt driveway, the fourth on the left. A fieldstone walkway lined with hosta plants led to the front porch of the beige home with brown shutters.

His knock was answered by his mother and Molly, her five-year-old Doberman and designated watchdog. Calder stepped inside to receive his mother’s embrace…and Molly’s nose up his butt.

Molly! His mother laughed. Don’t be rude!

Calder gave the dog a vigorous rub on the head and then tossed his bag onto the brown leather sofa and plunked down next to it.

Iced tea? his mom asked, already heading toward the