The two dark set eyes dilate quickly. The body wrapped in cotton cloth settles back into it’s half circular standing bed. The head is the only part moving. The straight jacket holds her together.
“From the mountains. They come in a tan truck and a white Mercedes. There are eight total. The mountains face west. Seven, there are seven bombs. They will be in the streets of London. Tuesday, 230pm, every half hour until they are all gone. The Tube. Clapham High, Oxford Circle, Whitechapel, Hackney Downs…. They will kill you all!” Figurine hisses. She blinks twice. Her eyes close.
The black suit stares at Figurine. “She done? Is there more?”
The white coat looks over, “She’s out. Four hours at least. She’s 90 percent accurate. Highest psychic rating ever.”
They turn away. The row of bodies surround both sides. Five bodies mark the end of aisle. The triangular knob closes the file of psychics.
“So what do you use on them. To get them to talk.” The black suit inquires.
“Water. They believe they have no choice. It’s called being locally blind. They all do it.” The white coat answers.
“Rainer, it’s happening Tuesday in London.” Black suit talks into phone.
“This Tuesday?” Comes the answer.
“She said Tuesday. ”
For the beginning. ..