by Kay Hooper
“Did you see it?”
“No,” Brooke replied readily. “But I haven’t really crossed over yet. Things to do first. Mediums to help.”
Hollis sighed her disappointment but wasn’t surprised. The universe, they had discovered, seldom made things easy for them. Which rather begged the question . . . “Why help me?” she demanded. “If I’m one of the things you need to do before you can move on . . . there must be a reason.”
Her tone innocent, Brooke said, “I’m just following orders.”
“From?”
Brooke smiled. Again.
With another sigh, Hollis said, “Not going to be too helpful, huh?” Then she frowned. “Okay, if you won’t tell me why me, then tell me why now. We aren’t on a case. Like I said, I’m just trying to reach some poor woman’s husband so she knows he still exists in some kind of life after this one.”
“You really believe that’s the only reason you’re here?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Remember the mantra. The SCU and Haven one. That bit about being taught that some things have to happen just the way they happen?”
“Well, yeah, but . . .” For the first time Hollis realized that the SCU mantra might encompass more than just investigations.
Hollis stared at Brooke for a long moment. “Diana warned me about spirit guides. How cryptic you guys can be. Usually are. And how remarkably unhelpful for, you know, guides. You might want to look up that word. Or tell your boss to.” She reflected, then added, “Well, ask. Not tell.”
Brooke’s smile faded. “I will tell you that there’s more in this house than you came here expecting. A lot more. You need to be careful. Very, very careful. Don’t open the wrong door or hold any of them open for too long; you won’t like what might come through. I’ll be around, Hollis.”
“Wait, what—”
Brooke vanished, and in almost the same moment Reese appeared in the doorway, wearing a robe and seemingly wide awake.
It occurred to Hollis that she’d only ever seen him in two states: wide awake or dead asleep. He probably didn’t even have an in-between.
“Hollis? You okay?”
“Just tell me I wasn’t broadcasting my dreams.”
“As far as I know, you weren’t. I didn’t pick up anything last night once you went out like a light after your shower. And nothing now except a . . . general unease.”
She stared at him, wondering if he remembered her sleepy invitation to join her. Wondering if that had been only her imagination.
Surely it was that.
Surely.
“Then why are you awake?” she asked finally.
“I usually wake about this time in the morning.”
“Before dawn?”
“Old habits.”
Military habits, she thought, but all she said was, “Well, I don’t think I’m up for the day. I think I’ll go back to sleep until a decent hour.” If she could do that, after Brooke’s very unsettling warning.
Reese didn’t seem surprised or disturbed. “Sounds like a good plan. I’ll shower and shave, and maybe do a little exploring.”
She started to warn him about all the spirits, then remembered he wouldn’t be troubled by them. “Okay. If I’m still asleep when they usually serve breakfast around here, wake me up, will you?”
“No problem. I’ll see you later.”
He turned and retreated back into their shared sitting room and from there, presumably, to his own bedroom and his shower.
Hollis stared after him for a long time, trying not to think because she didn’t want to broadcast. It was hard, though, not thinking. When there was so much on her mind. So many questions.
And worries.
She had known for a while that Bishop and Miranda were concerned about her, about the way she kept acquiring “fun new toys” of the psychic variety seemingly with every case. And when those two worried . . . well, they didn’t worry over trifles. Nobody had to tell Hollis that the human brain was both exceptionally powerful—and, conversely, fragile. Like every other organ in the human body, it had its limits.
Unfortunately, nobody really knew what those were.
Yet.
But everybody who counted was pretty damned sure that Hollis was pushing limits way, way too often.
Would she be pushing yet another limit if she—she and Reese—found a way to channel excess energy? Or would that help somehow?
No way of knowing without trying, which seemed to be very much the norm in Hollis’s life.
And now here was Brooke warning her to be careful, telling her without saying very much at all that there was reason to be wary in this house, wary in doing this relatively simple exercise in being a medium that was not supposed to be dangerous.
Hollis lay back on the bed and pulled the covers up around her. She felt cold, and uneasy, and just a little bit scared.
Just a little bit.
* * *
LUTHER SAID, “WE all struggle with our abilities. We live with the potential dangers of using them. It’s just . . . possibilities we accept. And I came here to do a job.”
“You’ve done that.”
“Found Jacoby, yeah. But . . . there’s more to it.”
“Is there?”
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Well, my assignment is a bit different. I need to understand just what kind of psychic he is, assuming that’s how he escaped. And I have to try to get a handle on that energy all around him.”
“You know it’s there. You know it’s negative. What else do you need to know?”
“Everything else we’ve been talking about. How strong is it. Whether it’s coming from him or something else. Whether he’s in control—or it is. If the source is the area somehow, then there’s at least an even chance its effects on Jacoby would lessen, or even disappear if we could get him away from here.”
“A chance. Not a certainty.”
“No. Depending on whether he was a latent, or just unusually vulnerable to the effects of energy, whether he’s using it or it’s using him, he may have changed permanently. I’m sure you know as well as I do that psychics rarely lose abilities or the strength of abilities once they have them, though some kind of trauma has been known to affect, even destroy, abilities. But we really don’t have much data on what might happen if a psychic’s abilities were created or at least strengthened by an external source. Especially an ability apparently triggered or created by negative energy.”
“Like my telepathy?”
“Like your telepathy. And possibly Jacoby’s abilities, whatever those really are.”
Callie rose and took both their coffee cups to be refilled. Luther only half watched her, trying to think the situation through from a standpoint of tactics and resources.
He accepted the coffee from her and took a swallow, grateful for the warmth even if it did little to help the cold unease inside him. No matter which way he looked at it, which way he considered, the situation up here just seemed like a bad one to him.
He looked at her as she sat across from him, knowing better than to underestimate any of Bishop’s people, but way too conscious of himself likely being more of a burden than a help.
“Every instinct tells me that could be bad a lot easier than it could be good. For both of us.”
“Given that it’s negative energy, you’re probably right.”
“I should leave.” He took another swallow of his coffee, frowning. “We should both leave. Or get down to town and call for backup.”
“Possibilities,” she allowed. “But . . . so far the bad is distant enough not to worry me. This being a safe spot, I’m inclined to stay, at least for the time being. And you need time to heal.”
“I can’t be much help while I’m healing.”
“Well, there isn’t all that much to be
done,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, right. You trying to gather information about Jacoby and his bad energy alone also sounds like a bad idea.” He held up his free hand when she would have spoken. “Granted, I don’t know the strength of your abilities, but the point is the going-anywhere-near-him-alone part. With all due respect to Cesar, if Jacoby’s stronger than you believe, or darker, more negative, neither your abilities nor your dog might be able to protect you. What then?”
She returned his gaze steadily for a moment, sipping her coffee, then said, “Well, I’m a great one for not crossing bridges until I come to them. Right now, there’s no urgent reason why I need to get close to Jacoby. Time enough in a few days, I’m thinking. Give him a chance to settle down after the encounter with you. Give him time to drop his guard, if it’s up. You’ll likely be on your feet by then.”
He uttered a short laugh. “Yeah, but there’s also the thing about me becoming an active telepath with a cracked shield. And being affected by that negative energy even more than I possibly already have been. If you’re right about that, I could well be more of a hindrance than a help.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’ll just have to keep you near—but at a safe distance from that cabin.”
“And if it’s Jacoby generating that negative energy, or he’s . . . able to carry it with him?” Luther was having a bit of trouble concentrating, and he frowned when her grave face seemed to blur a bit. He took a drink of his strong coffee, hoping it would help. It didn’t.
“It’s something we—I—have to find out about him. Along with other questions to be answered. Whether it’s growing or getting darker. Just how far he can go in using it. If he has any control at all.”
“So you have to get closer to him.”
“Eventually. No real hurry.”
“He’s shooting at people, Callie. Those hunters weren’t threatening him, and I didn’t threaten him, but he shot at all of us.” He rubbed his face with one hand, wondering if maybe a hot shower would clear his head somewhat. Except he didn’t want to use up her propane . . .
“When the time comes, I’ll be careful,” she said.
“Still. Bishop should have . . . sent somebody else. With you. Or we should call. For backup.” He was vaguely aware that Callie had gotten up silently and come over to take his coffee cup away from him.
“Why don’t you rest a bit,” she suggested. “Your leg needs time to heal, and nothing much is likely to happen in the next few hours. Sleep.”
He didn’t want to. In fact, he fought against it, trying mightily to keep his eyes open. But he lost the fight, and it wasn’t until he was almost out that he suddenly wondered . . .
“You . . . Did you . . . ?”
“Would I do that?” she murmured, apparently understanding.
Luther thought she would. He also thought he didn’t care much, and slipped into a peaceful darkness.
* * *
CALLIE CARRIED THE bowls and cups to the sink. Cesar uttered a curiously human sigh when she passed him, and she laughed under her breath. “Well, he obviously wasn’t going to rest any other way, his mind was going a mile a minute. Just a little sedation, that’s all. He’ll sleep a few hours, and be the better for it.”
Won’t like you.
“He won’t be happy, but I doubt he’ll be angry.”
Tricked him.
The easy telepathic link she had with Cesar, existing since the first time she’d picked up the wiggling black-and-tan puppy, had become an important part of Callie’s life and an integral part of the professional partnership.
Also the major reason Bishop had not only okayed the partnership but had asked that she provide rather extensive reports of her communications with her dog—as well as other animals she was able to connect to.
There had been a few of those along the way, but communication with animals other than Cesar tended to be brief and not nearly so . . . human. Whether Cesar had developed better language skills over the years or they had simply become more familiar with each other through almost constant contact, their silent communications were sometimes very like human discussions.
Like now.
“I know I tricked him. But he’ll forgive me. Sometimes people have to be . . . persuaded . . . to do what’s best. Don’t worry about it.”
Stubborn man.
“Yes, he is.”
Stubborn Callie.
She chuckled. “True enough. And since he’s weakened by loss of blood, my stubborn beats his.”
With another sigh, Cesar rose from the rug and glanced at the door, then back at her. Callie nodded slowly. “Guess we should, and now before it gets too light.” She retrieved her weapon from a drawer of a small table near the door and clipped it to her belt, then took her quilted, hooded jacket from the hook also near the door and put it on.
She automatically checked to make sure her flashlight was in her pocket, took a last look at her guest to make sure he was resting comfortably, then said to Cesar, “Remind me to give him that penicillin shot when we get back. Probably best if I do that before he wakes up.”
Probably. Shots hurt. Cesar’s tail, not docked as was the case with many Rottweilers, waved once, and then he followed her from the cabin.
Callie didn’t use her flashlight. She stood there on the wide porch of the cabin for a couple of minutes to allow her eyes to adjust, then moved out. It was dawn, but not by any stretch of the imagination bright; the mountain slope that hosted both her cabin and Jacoby’s faced east, but with another mountain between them and the rising sun, every new day took its time arriving.
The air was cold and clear, only the wisp of wood smoke from her fireplace hinting of anything not of nature’s doing. Callie automatically chose a path slightly different from the one she had used the last time she had gone out to check on Jacoby; every time, she varied her way, if only by a few yards, because she was naturally cautious and because she didn’t want to wear an actual path through the woods between his cabin and hers.
Despite the blanket of fallen leaves beneath her boots, it had been a wet autumn, so she didn’t have to worry about making noise as she walked. Not that she generally made any noise unless she wanted to.
She was in no particular hurry, walking slowly but allowing her gaze to scan the way ahead, looking and listening for anything out of place. About fifty yards away from her cabin, she stopped and quietly released Cesar from his automatic heel position so he could do his own kind of scanning. He moved out willingly, nose to the ground and moving silently, pausing here and there to mark his territory, but keeping her within sight and at the center of a wide circle.
Clearly, since he had no comment and showed no other signs, he sensed nothing to disturb him, and after a few minutes, Callie continued on.
Depending on the path she took, it was nearly a mile between her cabin and Jacoby’s, and she had covered around half that distance when she stopped suddenly, frowning. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing sounded out of place.
And yet . . . she felt an odd pressure. A reluctance to take another step forward. Still, she had to try—
Stop.
She turned her head to see that Cesar had also come to a halt, even with her but higher up the slope. He didn’t make a sound but dipped his nose toward the ground, then lifted his head and looked at her.
Trouble? She communicated silently because she wasn’t sure what it was Cesar was bothered by.
Not good. Come see.
Callie was wary, but not overly concerned; if there had been danger about, Cesar’s behavior as well as the warning would have been quite different.
Still, as she crossed the space to join her dog, she slid her hand inside her jacket and rested it on the handle of her gun, thumb ready to unsnap the holster. When she reached Cesar, she looked at the ground just in front of him—and even in the faint dawn light, she could s
ee a wetness that was not last week’s rain or last night’s dew.
She took her hand off the weapon and drew out her flashlight instead as she went down on one knee. She didn’t turn the light on immediately but instead reached down and touched two fingers to the wetness. In the faint light, her fingertips looked stained. A quick check with her flashlight confirmed what she already knew.
Blood.
“But whose?” she murmured.
It wasn’t Luther’s, because he hadn’t gotten this far and because the path she had used to bring him to her cabin was a good fifty yards farther downslope, where a narrow but relatively flat ridge had made it easier for Cesar to pull the litter.
An animal, wounded by some hunter or the attack of another animal deeper in the forest? An injured hunter?
Not animal. Human.
Cesar was both too sensitive and too well trained to be wrong about that sort of thing.
Okay. But without something to compare it to, that’s all you can really tell me, right?
Yes, for sure. Human. But . . .
But what?
I think girl. Afraid.
It didn’t surprise Callie that Cesar could determine the gender of a victim from blood. His senses were extraordinary; even after years she was still marveling at them.
She turned the flashlight back on and carefully examined the ground all around them. Nothing. No tracks, no pawprints or hoofprints or footprints visible anywhere except the faint marks left by her and her dog. Of course, the blanket of leaves was thick, so there would likely be clear marks only if sharp hooves had dug into the ground here, or something heavy had fallen. Or there had been a struggle of some kind.
No sign of anything like that.
A girl who had been afraid, perhaps forced or carried against her will? There could have been no other physical signs of that here, at least none that would be visible without a forensic examination.
The blood was fresh. Callie was no forensics expert, but she knew enough to be reasonably sure this blood was only a few hours old. If that. Yet she and Cesar had walked past this spot, no more than twenty yards down the slope, when they had come out to check on Jacoby earlier.