Hostage

by Kay Hooper

  “Yeah.”

  “You weren’t surprised when I said he was a wanted fugitive.”

  She smiled faintly and waited.

  “But you said all anybody in town knew was that someone rented the cabin for an unnamed friend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So how did you know the man in that cabin is Cole Jacoby?”

  “Well, I saw him. Unlike my neighbors up here and down in town, I like to know who’s around me. Especially when I recognize him from newspaper and TV reports as a wanted fugitive.”

  “But you didn’t tell the sheriff?”

  “Like my neighbors up here and down in town, I try to mind my own business. He hadn’t come near me or caused me any trouble.”

  Luther was still aware of the nagging feeling of too many unanswered questions but couldn’t seem to focus on what he thought he should have been asking her.

  Callie waited a moment, then nodded. “The news reports I saw in town had Jacoby on the loose hardly more than a week or two ago; the Scotts . . . let it be known they rented out the cabin a couple of months back. To a stranger with good references who said his name was Jones. He paid in cash, six months’ rent. Said his friend might not get up to the cabin for a few weeks, but not to send a cleaning crew, he’d take the cabin as is.”

  “And nothing in all that made them suspicious?”

  Still almost preternaturally calm, she replied, “Not that they said. Hasn’t really been a good tourist season, so the money, as I said, would have been welcome.”

  He brooded, then said, “Was it just the news reports that made you sure it’s Cole Jacoby in that cabin?”

  “I also encountered one of his dogs, when Cesar and I were hiking the other day. Friendly dog. Greeted us politely and then headed with a purpose toward the Scotts’ cabin. The tags had Jacoby’s name listed as owner. And a phone number. Looked like a landline.”

  “Up here?”

  “No. Prefix isn’t one used for this area. My guess, if he expected to be on the run or at least moving from place to place, is that he arranged with a veterinary clinic to be the contact if the dog—any of his dogs—went missing and turned up somewhere. There was a rabies tag, current. Virginia.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember the phone number on the owner tag?”

  “I remember. Prefix is Arlington.”

  “Close enough,” Luther muttered, half under his breath. He frowned at Callie. “And you recognized Jacoby’s name. As a wanted fugitive.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And didn’t think to tell the sheriff.”

  “Well, he’s eyeing retirement. Probably deserves to get there. And it’s not like Jacoby is a serial killer. Just a bank robber, right? A bank robber who never hurt anyone? Except you, of course.”

  “Yeah. But I was sent to find him. I should probably call and report that I did.”

  “It’ll have to wait. No landline. No cell service up here. And you’re in no shape to get down to town.”

  “Right,” he said finally, slowly. Something was still nagging at him, but he couldn’t seem to get hold of it. All Luther could really do at the moment was to acknowledge to himself that he needed to eat, possibly sleep again, and consider the puzzle that surrounded Cole Jacoby when his mind was considerably more clear.

  And the puzzle that was Callie Davis as well.

  He really hoped they would both make a lot more sense once he was more rested and clearheaded.

  “I’ll get the stew,” Callie said, setting her coffee cup on the table and moving into the kitchen area.

  “Did I thank you for digging that bullet out?” he asked, watching her.

  Her expression remained serene when she glanced at him. “A couple of times, but you were pretty out of it, especially after I gave you something for the pain.”

  “What?” He was curious and not a little uneasy.

  “Morphine. Out here, we have to be prepared for just about anything; it’s a long hike to my Jeep, and a longer drive to the nearest doctor or pharmacy. I have an EMS-grade first-aid kit here, and I’ve quite a bit of training, so I cleaned the wound and sewed you up after I got the bullet out. You shouldn’t have much of a scar. I have penicillin but didn’t want to give you any until you were awake and could tell me if you were allergic. An awful lot of people seem to be these days.”

  “True. But I’m not allergic to anything, far as I know.”

  “Then a shot to protect against infection would be a good idea. That bullet did a fair amount of damage, and the wound wasn’t exactly clean.”

  He could recall falling down once or twice in his haste to get away just after being shot, escape being more vital at the time than rigging a makeshift bandage. “You’re probably right.”

  I’m not out of it now. Thank you, Callie, for patching me up. Taking care of me.

  “Don’t mention it,” Callie said, without turning.

  Luther waited a beat, then said matter-of-factly, “So how long have you been a telepath?”

  * * *

  HOLLIS HADN’T EXPECTED to sleep much, but she had in fact napped at least an hour before dinner, eaten in a slightly drowsy state her hostess seemed to view with awe and her host with wavering suspicion, and then fallen into bed after a hot shower she’d expected to keep her awake rather than make her even more sleepy.

  She had the vague memory of DeMarco covering her up—even though she wasn’t at all sure where in the process he had joined her—and saying he’d leave the connecting doors open in case she needed anything. She also had the uneasy suspicion she had sleepily invited him to join her.

  She woke up alone, the pillow beside hers smooth and bearing no imprint of a head.

  It always took a few moments to get her eyes working properly if she’d been really out; it was, according to her doctors, an aftereffect of the truly groundbreaking surgery that had given her back her sight nearly three years ago. In any case, things were always blurry in a weird, shape-shifty sort of way for several seconds. It had been disconcerting to get used to, but once she had, Hollis seldom gave it a thought.

  Once she did get her eyes working on this particular morning, she realized dawn wasn’t far away and that she felt amazingly rested. She was relieved to see that she had at least managed to get herself into pajamas after her shower—or, at least, she hoped she was the one who had done that. At any rate, she smothered a wry laugh when she realized they were her flannel kitty pajamas.

  Very sexy.

  Not.

  Without turning on the lamp by her bed, she could still see the room quite well, so she elected not to turn on any light; it might wake DeMarco before he was ready, and despite the fact that he never showed it, he must have been nearly as weary as Hollis had been. Possibly more so; they’d had barely a weekend off after the last difficult, grueling case.

  Besides that, ever since Bishop had partnered them—and even before then, actually—DeMarco had seemingly appointed himself her watchdog, and though he tended to be unobtrusive about it in public, she was never surprised to feel him suddenly take her arm or mildly suggest they could both use some rest.

  She sat up in bed and wrapped her arms around her raised knees, not really looking at the extremely large and luxurious bedroom she’d been allotted. Instead, her gaze was on the open door that led to the equally spacious sitting room separating this bedroom from DeMarco’s.

  She hoped to God she wasn’t broadcasting. Bad enough the man could read her most of the time when he was awake—she really didn’t want her thoughts or emotions to disturb his sleep.

  Do I broadcast my dreams? Damn. Note to self: Ask Reese if I broadcast my dreams. Ask like it doesn’t matter.

  Right.

  She knew herself to be a wary woman when it came to personal relationships with men; the horrific events that had awakened her psychic a
bilities slightly less than three years before made that a given.3 And it had only been back in January of this year, after all, that she had met Reese DeMarco—just as he was ending an unusually long and dangerous undercover assignment that had nearly cost him his life.

  So neither one of them was especially unburdened by emotional and psychological baggage. Or scars. The opposite, in fact; it probably would have been extremely difficult to find two people who had been in darker, more evil places conjured by the human psyche than Hollis Templeton and Reese DeMarco.

  Outside the SCU, at any rate.

  But after what had happened to Diana, Reese had made his interest in Hollis crystal clear. Life was short, a brutal lesson they had both learned, and DeMarco had not wanted to find himself in the position of regretting that he had not spoken up about his feelings.

  After that . . . not very much had happened between them. Not, at least, of the romantic relationship variety.

  He had the advantage of being a powerful telepath often able to read her emotions and thoughts—not that she could hide them, since she “broadcast,” especially at stressful moments—so perhaps he simply knew she wasn’t quite ready to take a lover just yet. Perhaps he knew that the ever-growing psychic abilities Hollis had been coping with left her too vulnerable to deal with anything more at this point in her life.

  Perhaps.

  Hollis didn’t exactly resent his self-appointed watchdog status. The SCU team had become her family, a place where she felt welcome and understood, and she was well aware that DeMarco was never questioning her strength or her ability to take care of herself when he made sure she ate regular meals and rested when she could. He just saw or knew that she tended to get so focused on the job at hand that she forgot more mundane matters. And that, unlike some of the other team members, her reserves of strength and stamina were rather dramatically tapped and drained by her abilities, especially when she pushed herself.

  And she nearly always pushed herself.

  So . . . was he merely taking care of his partner? Or taking care of a woman in whom he was interested?

  Hollis wasn’t sure there was much of a difference when push came to shove. He was at her side, a strong presence she could count on, and that meant a lot. It was something she had never really known before in her life. And they had developed, over these last months, a kind of humorous banter that at times did a dandy job of lessening tension in a situation. He helped keep her spirits up, and called her on it when she was being gloomy or pissy for no good reason.

  Hollis had a shrewd idea that he had also been asked by Bishop to keep an eye on her. She knew they were worried about her, Bishop and Miranda, because her abilities weren’t just growing—they were leapfrogging. And that was unusual.

  Unheard of, really.

  So nobody quite knew what it meant, the way her abilities were developing. Maybe it would prove to be a good thing.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe her brain would reach its breaking point, short-circuit, and she’d end up stroking out or going into a coma.

  It had been known to happen.

  Hollis winced, making another mental note, this one to update the living will all SCU agents kept on file back at the office. Because she didn’t want to live hooked up to machines. She didn’t have Diana’s nightmares about that, but just the possibility made her skin crawl.

  Then, realizing, Hollis frowned down at herself, ran light fingers over her forearm, and felt the gooseflesh. Felt the fine hairs standing up all over her body. And felt the chill of that cold wave sweeping through her.

  “Oh, shit, not now,” she muttered under her breath. But she had learned that spirits who wanted to communicate with her were remarkably stubborn, so she forced herself to look up, at the foot of her bed.

  And felt a jolt. Surprise. Bafflement.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  * * *

  CALLIE DAVIS LOOKED at her guest for a moment, then ladled stew into two bowls, picked up a couple of spoons, and brought the food into the living room. She set his bowl on the coffee table in front of him, returned to the kitchen for her own coffee, then settled herself in a comfortable-looking chair across from the couch.

  “Eat it while it’s hot,” she said, following her own advice.

  Luther set his coffee cup on the table and picked up the bowl of stew. It was good, hot and filling, and his military training told him to eat it while he had the chance, because in a soldier’s life one never knew when or even if the next meal would be forthcoming.

  Besides, he was starving. It took all the manners he could muster not to shovel the stew in as fast as he could chew.

  “Good,” he noted about halfway through his generous portion.

  “Thanks. But you may get sick of it before we’ve finished the pot. My energy source for appliances is propane, and taking the tanks down into town to get them filled is a pain, so I use the stuff sparingly. Quick hot showers using a tankless heater. One-pot meals that last a few days when I hang them in the fireplace over to the side.”

  He looked briefly at the fireplace, noting two iron swing arms that would make that arrangement possible; as long as the fire burned or embers just gave off heat, the food—and probably the coffee in that pot as well—would remain at a low simmer.

  Which probably explained the strong coffee.

  “Am I going to be here a few days?”

  “Unless you heal a lot faster than the average bear, yes. Besides, if you’re going after Jacoby, this is about the only thing close to a base shelter from which to launch your offensive.”

  He didn’t have to listen very hard to hear the faint note of mockery. “I’m not going after him. My orders were to find him, make sure he’s not going anywhere, and report in.”

  “And what if he comes after you?”

  “You mean to finish the job?” Luther asked, gesturing with a spoon toward his covered bullet wound.

  “That would be one reason.”

  “You know of another one?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Because he knows you can track him no matter where he goes?”

  “Track him? You found me lost in the woods, remember?”

  “I found you wounded in the woods. Whether you were lost is an arguable point.”

  “I pretty much was,” he admitted.

  “You’d lost a lot of blood. Probably that more than anything else had your sense of direction off.”

  Luther finished his stew and set the bowl on the table, then picked up his coffee cup and sipped, watching her. “But you believe I can track Jacoby wherever he goes.”

  “I know you can. That’s why they sent you.”

  “They?”

  Callie set her empty bowl on the table, shifted so she could reach into the front pocket of her jeans, and then tossed a small metallic object to land on the coffee table precisely in front of Luther.

  “Haven,” she said.

  FIVE

  He reached over and picked up the small, smoothly cast lightning bolt, stared at it for a moment, then looked at her.

  “I followed a hunch,” she said. “Checked your hiking boots.”

  “That was more than a hunch.”

  Callie shrugged.

  The nagging question finally came within his grasp. “You know about Haven. You knew about Jacoby not because of any news reports, but because you were expecting him to be here. You’re here because of him. You’re FBI, aren’t you? More than that, you’re SCU.”

  Callie replied readily. “I am. And, yes, that’s why I’m here. Because of Jacoby.”

  Evenly, he said, “I asked you before. How long have you been a telepath?”

  Matter-of-factly, she said, “Born one. As soon as I could talk, I was freaking my parents out telling them what they were thinking.” A fleeting smile crossed her face. “And lear
ning a lot more about all kinds of things kids aren’t supposed to know.”

  “How soon did they have you in therapy?”

  This time, the smile lingered, a bit wry. “I was lucky. Psychic abilities run in the family, reportedly going back generations. Between my grandmother’s Sight and my aunt’s ability to talk to the dead, telepathy wasn’t such a big deal. Once everybody got used to it. And once they taught me to begin building my shields and to keep it to myself whenever the odd thought from someone else slipped through, especially if they weren’t family.”

  “Which you did. Keep it to yourself, I mean.”

  “Sure. Even kids know that to be different is to attract the wrong kind of attention. Especially kids. Didn’t want to be considered a freak. Besides, it gave me even more motivation to build strong shields so I could shut out the mental chatter all around me at will. I’ve had a lifetime to make those shields very, very strong.”

  “So . . . what? You dropped them with me?”

  “I was curious. You send and receive. Not so common.”

  He debated with himself for a silent moment, then said, “Far as I know, I’ve never sent or received with anyone else. And I’ve been tested, like we all are.”

  Callie didn’t seem disturbed. “Must be right on my frequency then. Bishop and Miranda are too.”

  Like all Haven operatives, Luther knew who they were talking about, even though he had not met either of the FBI agents. “Yeah, but they’re both telepaths, and strong ones. I’m not.”

  “News for you. You’re a telepath now. I’m guessing you got a little bit too close to the energy around Cole Jacoby. It’s powerful stuff. Powerful enough to trigger a latent ability. Maybe even create one.”

  Luther also knew what all operatives and agents knew, that external energy from various sources could affect, even change, a psychic’s abilities. Sometimes drastically. Such as activating what had been a completely unknown, latent ability. Like flipping a switch. But . . . creating one?

  “There’s energy around him?”