Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [61]
“You put your hands on a person,” D.D. said slowly, “then declare him healed?”
“Told you you weren’t the woo-woo type,” he said, smiling. Lightfoot tilted his head, regarding her thoughtfully for a minute. “Let me guess. You’re an accomplished detective. A work-hard, play-hard type of gal. You pride yourself on being tough, you always get your man. You would be the first to admit that you’re in touch with your inner bitch.”
D.D. blinked, didn’t say a word.
Lightfoot leaned forward, spoke in that same low, hypnotic tone. “Maybe it’s not about finding your inner bitch, Sergeant Warren. Maybe the key to happiness is finding your inner angel instead.”
He sat back and D.D. kept her eyes locked on his face, even as her hands clenched into fists. Nurse Danielle had been right. Arrogant son of a bitch. And yet … And yet.
“Would it surprise you to know that my father was in law enforcement?” Lightfoot offered abruptly. “Not a big-city detective like you. Small-town cop. I, of course, was the ambitious son who couldn’t wait to escape to the bright lights and big city. After my encounter with the fortune-teller, I called my father. He confirmed my shaman bloodlines, but was unwilling to give our heritage too much credit. So he had an instinctive ability to read people’s true nature. He knew when someone was lying. He knew which men hit their wives and which women abused their children. And he knew when something bad was going to happen. He could feel it, the negativity building in the air like an electrical charge. He’d round up the usual suspects, in case that would make a difference.
“I don’t think my father believed in his skills, as much as he puzzled over them. Because we lived in a peaceful community, did that mean he had few healing instincts? Or did we live in a peaceful community because he had such great healing instincts? Welcome to the nature of woo-woo.”
“Work much with kids?” D.D. asked abruptly.
“I work with all ages.”
“Let’s talk kids,” D.D. insisted.
He spread his hands expansively. “What would you like to know, Sergeant?”
“Does your healing extend beyond the physical to include mental illness? You know, troubled kids and all that?”
“I have worked with a number of kids others might classify as emotionally disturbed.”
“How would you classify them?”
“As old souls, as incredibly wise and sensitive beings who are being viciously attacked by other, more powerful negative forces. These negative energies are drawn to the light, particularly to old souls, and will stop at nothing to destroy them.”
D.D. had to think about this. “We’re back to the battle again? The war between light and dark? Kind of Star Warsy, don’t you think?”
“Maybe Lord of the Rings,” Lightfoot said, then grinned again. “You’re an old soul,” he said abruptly.
“It’s the humidity.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Not for a second. Though I find it interesting that when someone like me meets someone like you, we’re always someone important. An old soul. The former Queen of Sheba. The fortune-teller never says anyone was a peasant a thousand years ago, though most folks were. And apparently, a shaman never says you’re just a flicker in the cosmos of life, though again, most folks are.”
“You must find the truth inside yourself.”
“As the saying goes, no shit, Sherlock.”
Lightfoot laughed, appearing delighted. D.D. glanced down at her half-filled coffee cup, fidgeted