Deja Who Read Free Page B

memories! But I could almost feel you digging around inmy brain. Peeking. Spying.” Leah made no comment, just let the silence stretch out. A pity #6116 was only interesting when she allowed her paranoia to show.
    â€œPeeking and spying,” she replied. “Yes, that’s about right.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with me?”
    What isn’t
wrong with you?
    Don’t worry, #6116. You’re in good (bad?) company; there’s plenty wrong with me, too.
    Insighters had come along, evolutionarily speaking, shortly after man took up hobbies like cave painting and wearing the fur of the animals they clubbed to death. They weren’t always called Insighters, but at least they weren’t alone in that the names of their persecutors changed, too.
    From shamans to witches (the Salem witch trials were a particularly bad time to be an Insighter), from pagans to Christians, from water dowsers to spiritual mediums, rhabdomancy to haruspices, and today Insighters. Tomorrow, Leah thought with morbid humor, “those weirdos who knew everyone’s past life before we killed ’em all.”
    Though they were accepted (with reservations) as essential medical personnel, her kind had rarely had it easy. People who knew things they shouldn’t have always, always been feared. Leah could remember researching as a teenager, shivering at how in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, not only was it legal to kill an Insighter, there was a strict protocol to be observed: Pluck out the eyes first. Burn the rest. Bury the ashes. Salt the earth the ashes were in.
    And never speak of this again. Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?
    Today it was about clean offices and HMO plans, receptionists and patient referrals. Once upon a time it had been the ducking stool and hot pincers; the modern version (paperwork!) was almost as bad. It was always unpleasant, but at least Insighting was no longer an automatic death sentence.
    Unless, of course, you were the late, somewhat lamented Ginny Devon, formerly of Portland, Maine, now embarked on her fourth life, hopefully. Ginny Devon had been less than two years out of graduate school (doctoral thesis: “A Child Shall Lead Them: Children’s Insights from Arthur Flowerdew to Shanti Devi”) when she was murdered by a patient’s disgruntled husband, a serial cheater who didn’t appreciate being told he’d once been Henry VIII.
    He had waited for her to leave the office, smashed her car window with a recoilless hammer, used a water gun filled with gasoline to drench her face and hair, then tossed a match and settled down to await arrest. He explained to the arresting officers that yon crispy critter had no right to snoop through his past, and certainly no right no discuss it with his wife, who was in the middle of scoring half of his net worth, thanks to, as he described it, a “fireproof prenup” (he was apparently unaware of the dreadful irony).
    He had explained to the grand jury that his wife had been out of line to hire someone to snoop through his past lives, like a PI who didn’t have to go through legal channels to dig. They had indicted him by one vote. He then explained his thoughts on snoopy Insighters to another jury, which, to the surprise of no one (but to the resigned alarm of Insighters the world over), came back hung. He had been convicted the second time and the judge had passed a wrist slap: ten years, including timeserved. Out in six. Extenuating circumstances. Temporary insanity. Only dangerous to snoopy Insighters, not the world at large.
    Leah was probably safe from Chart #6116 but it wouldn’t do to take that for granted. The lady in question had by now swung her legs over the couch, sat up, and puffed a hank of hay-colored hair out of her eyes.
    Leah thought, not for the first time or the twentieth, that evil hid beautifully. Because Chart #6116, Alice Delaney, was gorgeous: tall and shapely, generous in the hip and