Hostage

by Kay Hooper

  “When she lets down her shield—which she has to consciously do—most of our telepaths have been able to communicate with her easily, and with complete thoughts rather than just snippets or impressions, so she’s receptive to positive energy. A small percentage of our telepaths couldn’t send or receive. Anything, even though her shield was down. We’re not sure if it was due to their abilities or hers. Or just one of those days when one or all of them weren’t able to control their abilities.”

  “She’s also a telepath?”

  “Yeah, she is a telepath, though it seems secondary to both her shielding abilities and her abilities to detect and repel negative energy. So far, at any rate.”

  Maggie said, “Three distinct abilities?”

  “More like two,” Bishop replied. “Our theory is that her mind developed the shield to protect itself from negative energy, so those two abilities are likely connected. The telepathy began as her primary ability.”

  “And the others developed only when she was exposed to negative energy?”

  “I believe so,” Bishop said.

  Maggie waited a moment, then said, “You’re not going to tell us when and how that happened?”

  “That’s her story, part of her history. Not mine to share.”

  John sighed, even though he was well aware, and personally grateful, that Bishop kept the secrets of many if not most of the psychics he dealt with—and that he shared such information with others only when it was absolutely necessary. “As usual, we have more questions than answers about an agent or operative’s abilities.”

  “Some things don’t change,” Maggie said, then added immediately, “Bishop, did you know Nash had contacted Haven?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But not from him.”

  “No.”

  “Have you told him you have an agent in place?”

  Bishop replied, “Unless you’ve told him differently, he doesn’t know Cole Jacoby has been located.”

  Maggie looked at her husband with raised brows. “Did he answer my question?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Relenting, Bishop said, “No, I haven’t told Nash—or anyone else outside the SCU—that I have an agent in Tennessee and that she located Jacoby days ago. The instant Nash is informed of Jacoby’s location, he’ll mount a full-scale operation to get his fugitive, with the director’s blessing; everybody wants that ten million found. I’m less concerned with recovering the stolen money than I am with determining the extent of Jacoby’s psychic abilities. For now, at least.”

  “And she doesn’t know yet?” Maggie asked.

  “Not as of her last report hours ago. She says the whole area around him is dark, and she didn’t mean it was because he’s in a cabin in the woods. Something out there, something in or around Jacoby, is producing a lot of negative energy, but so far she hasn’t risked getting closer to try to figure out whether it’s Jacoby—or something or someone else.”

  “Energy with a purpose?” Maggie asked.

  “Also something we don’t yet know. But negative energy is usually being channeled or otherwise controlled, especially if it’s confined to one area or person.”

  Mildly, John said, “You might have warned us the armed felon we were hired to find was also likely to be psychic. Or was it part of your master plan to have a Haven operative on the scene?” The question wasn’t as mocking as the words made it seem.

  More practically, Maggie asked, “Is that why you sent only one agent instead of the usual team? Because we were sending an operative?”

  Again not exactly answering the question, Bishop said, “I knew Luther would be the operative chosen to go in. And he needs to be there.”

  “Why?” Maggie asked.

  “To save my agent’s life. After she saves his, of course.”

  THREE

  Owen Alexander scowled at the newcomers he undoubtedly didn’t regard as guests, even generations of “good breeding” failing to overcome his open hostility. “Anna claims you don’t charge a fee,” he said the moment the door of the impressive library closed behind the equally impressive, old-world butler who had escorted them here and announced them.

  Hollis was still trying to get over being announced in a private home and said almost absently, “No, I never charge fees.”

  “Then why do it?” he demanded.

  She looked at him, momentarily startled. The literal truth, that she was an FBI agent trying to get a handle on her abilities and figure out how best to use them in investigations, wasn’t something she was free to share—exactly—so she said, “I . . . want to help people.”

  “By lying to them?”

  DeMarco shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, perfectly aware that Hollis had a temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  Her blue eyes narrowed as she studied Alexander. “As far as I know, no spirit has ever lied to me, so I’ve never passed on a lie. They seem to be beyond that sort of petty human thing once they’ve died.”

  Alexander blinked, clearly startled. “Most of your sort say ‘passed’ or something equally euphemistic,” he said.

  “Kindly don’t lump me into a group, Mr. Alexander. I also don’t use tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves, read palms, go into trances, or insist anybody hold hands around a candlelit table. I don’t ask for birth dates so I can use what most people know about their horoscopes to get a few easy and pseudo ‘hits’ without really trying. I just utilize the natural energy of my mind, which happens to be sensitive to a specific frequency, and use that tool to open a door so spirits can come through and talk to the living. Assuming they want to. I often wonder why they bother.”

  Like now.

  She didn’t say it, but it hung in the air between her narrowed gaze and Alexander’s glare.

  DeMarco eyed the two of them, noting the disparity in size between Hollis’s slender, almost frail-looking form and Alexander’s tall, bulky, just-this-side-of-corpulent self, and silently bet on Hollis to win the standoff.

  In the end, there wasn’t really a winner, because the door opened and a middle-aged woman hurried in. She was lovely in a slightly faded way, dressed in something rather flowing and filmy that to DeMarco’s mind would have been better suited to June than October—and possibly thirty or forty years ago to boot.

  But what did he know about women’s fashion? Less than nothing.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” she said, a little breathless. “Owen, honestly, haven’t you even asked them to sit down?” Before he could respond, she ushered Hollis and DeMarco to a long, elegant silk sofa and sat down in a chair at right angles and nearest to Hollis. “Thomas should be back with coffee any time now.”

  Thomas, DeMarco, reflected, was clearly the butler; Owen hadn’t spoken a word to the man.

  “I’m Anna Alexander. But, of course, you know that. Thank you so much for coming.”

  Owen Alexander sat down on an identical sofa facing the visitors, his scowl gone but displeasure lingering around a grim mouth. “I thought you were resting,” he said to his sister-in-law. “I didn’t see any reason to disturb you. They’re early.”

  DeMarco said calmly, “The roads were better than we were led to believe. We got an early start just in case.”

  “You’re very welcome here,” Anna Alexander assured him, her gaze flitting to Hollis almost hesitantly. “Forgive me, Ms. Templeton—”

  “Hollis, please. And he’s Reese. We aren’t very formal.” She glanced around at the huge, formal library, her mouth twisting slightly.

  “Then I hope you’ll call me Anna. And my brother-in-law is Owen.” She didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze on Hollis. “Forgive me, Hollis, but I was told your methods of summoning Spirit were somewhat unorthodox, so I wasn’t certain how to prepare for the séance. I wasn’t even certain which room would be best.”

 
Hollis and DeMarco exchanged quick glances, no telepathy necessary between them to share the realization that Anna Alexander had indeed spent a great deal of time with mediums—and those who claimed to be. Enough, at least, to pick up the lingo.

  Clearing her throat, Hollis said, “Well, first, you need to understand that I don’t really summon anything. In my experience, mediums are simply people who have the ability to open a kind of door for . . . a certain type of energy to enter our space or dimension.”

  “Spiritual energy?” Anna’s hands, clasped together in her lap, were twisting restlessly even though her voice was calm.

  Relatively.

  Hollis nodded. “There’s nothing inhuman about it, nothing magical. In fact, it’s based on science being seriously researched in many different reputable facilities around the world as we speak. It’s an ability, the way some people have an ear for music or an uncanny flair for mathematics or physics. The theory is, some people are hardwired to . . . pick up and interpret electromagnetic energy on certain frequencies. Each medium’s frequency is different, which is why we get as many misses as hits and why we tend to use our abilities differently. Some mediums see the dead, some hear them, and a relative few of us can do both. But it’s perfectly natural to us. It’s how the human brain works, after all, using electromagnetic energy. What I have, what I’ve learned to use to a certain extent, is just another sense.”

  A short laugh escaped Owen. “Well, you’re original, I’ll give you that much. So it’s just a sense and not a gift, huh?”

  Before Anna could offer a fluttering apology, as she showed every sign of doing, Hollis looked at Owen and answered him in a very deliberate tone.

  “Believe me, most of the genuine mediums I know would never call it a gift, what we can do. At best, it’s something we learn to live with, and hopefully learn to control and make some decent use of. At worst, it takes over our lives and sometimes makes us question our sanity.”

  “And do you question yours?” he asking mockingly.

  “Only on days like this.”

  DeMarco spoke without haste but still managed to soothe their agitated hostess and silence her brother-in-law, to say nothing of calming Hollis—at least slightly. “I think the best thing to do right now would be for us to begin the reading.”

  Owen muttered, “Don’t you mean ‘séance’?”

  “Hollis prefers the term ‘reading,’ since what she does involves none of the traditional trappings of a séance.”

  She looked at him in slight surprise but was prevented from asking him when he’d decided to toss the séance idea out the window when the butler entered the room silently, carrying a large silver tray.

  Anna directed him to set it on the coffee table and said, “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll pour.”

  “Yes, madam.” He retreated as silently as he’d arrived.

  “Coffee first?” Anna asked tentatively.

  Knowing how cold she was likely to be after the reading, Hollis nodded, with only a glance at DeMarco. “Yes. Thank you.”

  They went through the curiously stilted ritual of being served coffee, both Hollis and DeMarco politely refusing little sandwiches and pastries on a tiered server.

  Owen Alexander ate several of each.

  Hollis thought the polite “visitor” chitchat their hostess doggedly maintained during the rather ceremonial coffee drinking was a bit ridiculous under the circumstances and wasn’t very happy that her partner courteously helped it along.

  Time was ticking away. It was dark now, and she was uneasily certain that they would be invited to spend the night. And Hollis didn’t want to spend the night here. Because her initial guess had been right; this house was definitely what any genuine medium would term haunted. Very much so. She was already aware, on the periphery of her senses, that more than one restless spirit inhabited this old house, undoubtedly with things to communicate to the living.

  It wasn’t that Hollis was afraid of them; she had long ago moved past fear in dealing with spirits even if that had driven her in the beginning to block so fiercely that she had rarely seen and even more rarely been able to hear spirits. Now she wasn’t even sure she could block; the “door” that most mediums spoke of tended by this stage of her life to be almost always open as far as Hollis was concerned.

  Almost always. As with most abilities, it sometimes appeared to have a mind of its own, not subject to her will or needs.

  But even with time and experience under her belt, with all the advice and counsel of other mediums in the unit, she still hadn’t reached a place within herself where she found the interaction with spirits at all normal or comfortable. She couldn’t be matter-of-fact about it.

  And haunted houses promised sleepless nights. The dead didn’t need to sleep and didn’t seem to have any problem at all keeping the living up when it suited them.

  She set her coffee cup down on the table and said rather abruptly, “I know you’ve seen quite a few mediums since your husband died, Anna. Do you feel you were ever able to communicate with him?”

  Anna sent an uneasy glance toward Owen and said, “There were a few who seemed able to summon—to reach Daniel. But—”

  “But Google offers more information than they did,” Owen said in disgust. “Flickering candlelight, thumps and bumps, and spirit guides with low-pitched and heavily accented voices notwithstanding.”

  Anna looked acutely unhappy. “I’m just not sure,” she confessed to Hollis. “I thought at the time . . . but Owen is right. They didn’t tell me anything they couldn’t have found out easily beforehand.”

  “What is it you expect him to tell you?” And when Owen snorted, Hollis added evenly, “I’m not asking for specifics, just wondering if you have a particular question in mind or just need to know that he’s at peace.”

  A shaken laugh escaped Anna. “I feel a bit like Houdini’s widow, but Daniel told me more than once that if there was anything beyond this life, he’d find a way to contact me and let me know. And he was an exceptionally strong and determined man, so if anyone could keep that promise, it would be him. He was . . . not as cynical as Owen, but he was a realist, and knew there was a good chance fraudulent mediums would try to take advantage of me. So we worked out a message only the two of us would know.”

  “And so far no medium has delivered,” DeMarco murmured.

  “So far, no. Then a friend of mine who sits with me on the board of a major charity told me about Hollis.”

  Hollis wanted to ask at least one of the questions tumbling through her mind, but DeMarco’s fingers closed around her wrist, and she remained silent. Outwardly, at least.

  How does Bishop manage to do stuff like that? Arrange stuff like that? Know when to arrange stuff like that?

  Because she had no doubt that he had, and it was one of the few true mysteries of life in the SCU. Not many secrets in a unit peopled with psychics, except the ones Bishop kept.

  Unaware, Anna said, “She said she’d heard wonderful things about your abilities, that you were genuine. And that you never took money for helping people communicate with loved ones. Even Owen had to admit he didn’t know why you’d pretend to make contact if you couldn’t.”

  “Unless you get off on delivering false hope to people,” Owen said, his tone deliberately baiting.

  Hollis didn’t bite, though she did look at him for a moment before returning her gaze to Anna. “Just please understand, I don’t channel spirits; I don’t become them or anyone else other than myself. I don’t have any spirit guides or, as I told Mr. Alexander, go into any kind of trance or become unconscious. I’m fully awake and aware the whole time. I just concentrate, really, try to focus.” She hesitated, then added, “I can’t promise anything will even happen. It doesn’t always.”

  “What a surprise,” Owen Alexander drawled.

  Hollis looked at him, narrowed her eyes for a momen
t, then looked over his left shoulder. “You really should believe in spirits, Mr. Alexander,” she said, more grim than triumphant.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because you’ve got one just behind you. And from the way she’s looking at you, I’m guessing she’s a former girlfriend or mistress. Did you kill her, or was it someone else?”

  Haven

  “I knew I felt pain,” Maggie said with a sigh.

  “A shot in the leg,” Bishop confirmed. “Not fatal or even especially serious under normal circumstances, but he lost a lot of blood and he was in the middle of nowhere. With a wanted fugitive on his trail, highly motivated to catch him, especially if he posed a threat.”

  John said, “You mean if he realized Luther is psychic.”

  “Yeah. If. And given Luther’s tracking skills, and his ability to . . . hide in plain sight, I’m assuming that his target wouldn’t have noticed his presence any other way.”

  “Safe assumption,” Maggie murmured. “Though I’m not at all sure Jacoby’s dogs wouldn’t have heard or sensed somebody outside that cabin. Even somebody with the camouflage skills Luther has might not be a match for three well-trained guard dogs. By the way, how do you know he was shot in the leg?”

  “Callie.”

  Maggie had to search her memory, but only briefly. “Callie Davis? She’s your agent there?”

  “She is. And she’s one of the few members of the team who can reach Miranda and me without the need for a cell tower or a landline, no matter how far away she is. Whether it’s because she broadcasts on a frequency right in our range or because she’s capable of focusing on a particular target when she sends is something we haven’t determined yet. We do know the two-way communication exists only when Callie is the one who initiates it.”

  “Not even you and Miranda can reach her otherwise?”

  “So far, no. If her shields are up, they’re impenetrable.”

  “But you got a message from her saying Luther had been shot in the leg.”