Marino asked, staring at her in disbelief.
“I did not feel anything that was frightening,” she said.
“But I saw the knife, and I knew it was not the couple who had been in the Jeep when it was left where it was. I did not feel their presence at that rest stop. They were never there.”
She paused, closing her eyes again, brow furrowed. “I remember feeling anxiety. I had the impression of someone anxious and in a hurry. I saw darkness. Like it was night. Then someone was walking quickly. I couldn’t see who it was.”
“Can you see this individual now?” I asked.
“No. I can’t see him.”
“Hint!” I said.
She paused again. “I believe my feeling was that it was a man.”
It was Marino who spoke. “You told Pat Harvey all this when you was with her at the rest stop?”
“Some of it, yes,” Hilda replied. “I don’t remember everything I said.”
“I need to walk around,” Marino muttered, getting up from the couch. Hilda did not seem surprised or concerned as he went out, the screen door slamming shut behind him.
“Hilda,” I said, “when you met with Pat Harvey, did you pick up anything about her? Did you get any sense: that she knew something, for example, about what might have happened to her daughter?”
“I picked up guilt real strong, like she was feeling responsible. But this would be expected. When I dead, with the relatives of someone who has disappeared or been killed, I always pick up guilt. What was a little more unusual was her aura.”
“Her aura?”
I knew what an aura was in medicine, a sensation that can precede the onset of a seizure. But I did not think this was what Hilda meant.
“Auras are invisible to most people,” she explained. “I see them as colors. An aura surrounding a person. A color. Pat Harvey’s aura was gray.”
“Does that mean something?”
“Gray is neither death nor life,” she said. “I associate it with illness. Someone sick of body, mind, or soul. As if something is draining the color from her life.”
“I suppose that makes sense when you consider her emotional state at the time,” I pointed out.
“It might. But I remember that it gave me a bad feeling. I picked up that she might be in some sort of danger. Her energy wasn’t good, wasn’t positive or healthy. I felt she was at risk for opening herself up to harm, or maybe bringing harm upon herself through her own doings.”
“Have you ever seen a gray aura before?”
“Not often.”
I could not resist asking, “Are you picking up a color from me?”
“Yellow with a little brown mixed in.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, surprised. “I never wear either color. In fact, I don’t believe I have anything yellow or brown inside my house. But I love sunlight and chocolate.”
“Your aura has nothing to do with colors or foods you like.”
She smiled. “Yellow can mean spiritual. And brown I associate with good sense, practical. Someone grounded in reality. I see your aura as being very’ spiritual but also very practical. Now mind you, that is my interpretation. For each person, colors mean a different thing.”
“And Marino?”
“A thin margin of red. That’s what I see around him,” she said. “Red often means anger. But he needs more red, I think.”
“You’re not serious,” I said, for the last thing I would have thought that Marino needed was more anger.
“When someone is low on energy, I tell them they need more red in their life. It gives energy. Makes you get things done, fight against your troubles. Red can be real good if channeled properly. But I get the sense he is afraid of what he is feeling, and this is what is weakening, him.”
“Hilda, have you seen pictures of the other couples who disappeared?”
She nodded. “Mrs. Harvey had their pictures. From the newspaper.”
“And did you touch them, read them?”
“I did.”
“What did you perceive?”
“Death,” she said. “All of the young people were dead.”
“What about the light-complected man who may, have, a beard or something dark over part of his face?”