by A J Sherwood
He pulled me in to stand in front of him, tipping my head back, and I closed my eyes to let him wash my hair. Donovan loved doing that for some reason, and the gentle massage of his fingers felt good, so I never protested. He was even more gentle this time, no doubt because he feared pushing too hard against my still sensitive head, and the warm water felt good to me.
A smile lingering on my face, I waited only until he’d rinsed the shampoo out before taking the body wash from the corner shelf, loading up, and resuming the wash he’d paused in order to accommodate me. No loofa, though. I did love warm, soapy skin.
He smiled down at my smile, letting me play for a moment, then captured my head with a wide hand and ducked down enough to kiss me. I arched up and into him, enjoying the sweet exchange. Our bodies naturally shifted in closer, our arms around each other, embracing each other in a cocoon of hot, wet skin and affection. The intimacy warmed me in ways a shower never could, and I lingered there, loving every second of this.
I loved this man beyond all reason. Him loving me just as much made me the luckiest bastard on earth.
Donovan pulled back with a chuckle, golden-brown eyes dancing. “Babe, I can hear your stomach.”
“I suppose I should feed it.” I sighed in aggravation; I didn’t want to stop kissing him.
“Come on, wash quick. Mom made enough food to feed us for the next ten years, including your favorite soup.”
“That does actually motivate me,” I admitted, reaching for more bodywash.
It took a few more kisses and some soapy hands wandering in interesting places before we finally got out. I wasn’t sure if it would have happened if the water hadn’t gotten cold on us, giving us the last motivation we needed.
Feeling far more human, I pulled on loose, comfortable clothes before wandering downstairs. Donovan had clearly already been up and had eaten breakfast; dishes were stacked off to the side of the sink, drying. He was far, far better than me about doing dishes. For him it was relaxing, a sort of physical meditation. For me it was an aggravation.
Donovan planted me at the bar, then rummaged in the fridge, pulling out the soup and heating up a bowl. As I ate, he stayed in the kitchen and called or texted several people that I was finally up.
I ate three bowls, putting myself into something of a food coma, and ended up on the couch, sprawled out on my back. Good food, a sexy man at my beck and call, and no demands for the rest of the day. Bliss. I might even feel well enough to tackle him to the bed later. That’d be fun.
The phone rang and Donovan answered it with a perky, “Yo. Yeah, he’s up. Well, he was doing a zombie impersonation at first—”
Not able to let that dig pass, I raised a hand in the air and flipped him off.
Laughing, he continued, “—but he’s actually looking human now. Polished off three bowls of Mom’s famous chicken-coconut soup, which I take as a good sign. You guys making any progress?” He stopped drying the bowl in his hand and immediately put everything down before heading quickly to me. “Wait, wait, he’ll want to hear this. Let me put you on speaker.”
I sat up, moving my legs aside to give Donovan room, and he sank down while putting the phone flat on his palm. “Alright, say it again,” he requested.
“The sketch helped. We at least know who this guy is now. And trust me, it’s gone from strange to stranger. This guy’s dead,” Garrett reported.
“What do you mean, dead?” Donovan and I demanded in unison.
“Wow, I can tell you guys have been together a while. Already sharing a brain, huh.” Garrett snickered at his own joke.
I glared at the phone. “You know, I can’t reach you from here, but I know people who are close by who can hit you for me.”
“Meh, I’ll take my chances. So our guy’s Samuel Rice, forty-five years old, or at least he was at the time of his death.”
“Whoa,” I protested. “He’s not a ghost wandering around; this guy’s corporeal!”
“I should say, reported death. He was in an apartment in Denver last August, and the thing had an explosion rip through it. It collapsed under the force. Everyone was supposedly accounted for, but for some reason he’s listed as dead. I think he was missing, presumed dead, and someone checked the wrong box on the form. Or that’s our running theory. So yeah, he lived through an apartment collapsing on top of him last fall, and as far as we can tell, he’s been homeless and basically off the grid ever since. We’re pretty sure he’s living in his car. We can’t find any other trace of this guy after that explosion.”
Donovan met my eyes, speaking slowly, each word carefully weighed out. “Could he have suffered a head trauma from the explosion? Possibly PTSD?”
“Also our working theory. Poor guy’s off his rocker, and unfortunately, we’re pretty sure he’s attacking women because of it. He’s also stupidly difficult to locate because he’s constantly driving around and parking in obscure places. I’ve never seen someone so skillful at evading cameras. I think he’s ultra-paranoid.”
“Some people suffering from a mental illness are, or at least that’s been my experience,” I said absently, thinking hard. “Damn, now I feel bad for him. He probably isn’t even really aware of what he’s doing. We can’t track him at all?”
“Not a bit. Marc’s about ready to tear his hair out over here. We’ve got basic information on him, but so far, it’s not helping us much. Rice was a security guard, did some installation, too, in his twenties. His background with alarm installation and security equipment could be why he’s so good at evading it.”
I grumbled out a curse. Unfortunately, that did make sense. “Anything else?”
“Not a lot in his file. He’s single, but both parents are living, and he’s got three siblings. No one’s heard from him since the explosion. We do have some good news, though. Because of her defense, we found traces of his skin and blood under Myers’ fingernails, so we have DNA that puts him on scene. Javier says with that, he can at least get the paperwork started to declare this guy alive again.”
They’d have to—otherwise we couldn’t do much legally. We couldn’t hold him, couldn’t prosecute him, nothing. Even if we caught him, we’d only be able to hold him for forty-eight hours. I thought back on everything I’d seen in Myers’ head and realized in my interest of getting them the picture and getting out of there, I’d failed to pass something on. Something I really should have. Damn Psy-Aid, it always screwed with my head. “There’s that, at least. Hey, Garrett, where are you? Anyone else with you?”
“I’m outside the Clarksville station. Stepped out to warm up. I swear to you everyone inside is a polar bear in disguise. They like it way too cold in there.”
I grimaced in sympathy. “Tell me about it. Can you go back in? There was something strange I forgot to tell Marc.”
“Sure.” I could hear the squeak of the front door as it opened, the clatter of keys and the thrum of voices speaking in the background as he moved back inside. “Strange how?”
“Let me explain it all at once.”
“Okay.” It took another minute, then the sound quality changed as Garrett put us on speaker. “Okay, Jon, I’ve got Marc, Javier, and Freeman listening in. Speak, oh great psychic.”
I would pay him back for the teasing later. I swore on my mother’s red hair. “Hi, guys.”
“Hey yourself,” Freeman greeted in that deep bass of his. “Glad to hear you’re finally up. You going to come play with us anytime this week?”
Donovan gave me a warning look that I wisely heeded. “Uh, my anchor’s giving me a death glare. So maybe Wednesday? I promised him I’d stay down for four days.”
Freeman chuckled. “He’s right to be protective of you, Jon. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Havili.”
Donovan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Thank you.”
“Now, what’s this about you forgetting to tell us something?” Marc asked curiously.
“It’s kind of a strange thing,” I started, trying to explain something that h
ad never made sense to any other psychic. “But I can see auras through another person’s perspective if I’m doing a level three reading.”
Dead silence on the other end of the line.
Marc finally said, “That makes no sense to me.”
“Yeah, it never has to anyone else either. If it’s a photograph, or even footage from a camera, you’re out of luck. I don’t see anything through a reproduction. But I think it’s because auras have a life and energy of their own, and they impact other people. There’s always a residual energy on a person’s memory. I can see it.”
“Damn, Bane,” Freeman whistled lowly. “I really should have recruited you.”
I snorted, amused by this. “Same reasons why it’s a bad idea still apply, Freeman. But back to my point. Because I can see auras generally through another person, I can usually get a feel for the other person in their memory. But this guy, Rice, he’s not glowing at all in Myers’ memory. It’s not like he’s a walking black hole, it’s more like he’s…a blank canvas? He’s so thoroughly and completely shielded I saw no aura.”
Marc let out an explosive noise that sounded like jumbled swearing. “He’s psychic?”
“I don’t think so,” I said thoughtfully. “Even when a psychic shields himself, I can see something of their aura. That looks different. I can buy that he has some latent psychic energy, but I’ll bet you because he’s so paranoid, he’s drawing on that latent ability subconsciously to shield himself. He’s suppressed his own aura so it’s undetectable.”
“No wonder I can’t trace him, then.” Marc sounded vindicated for a split second before he groaned loudly. “Although that doesn’t help us on how to trace him. Bane, did he not have any energy signature at all?”
“Not in the traditional sense, but there was something there. A sort of greyish wash. It’s hard to describe, but….”
“Jon, are you proposing a mental link up with Marc?” Gonzalez asked cautiously.
Donovan didn’t look happy at this idea either—he was outright glaring at me—and I gave him my best smile as I reassured all parties, “Not today. But I think by tomorrow I’d be recovered enough that it would be fine. Freeman, you can link us up, right?”
“Sure, I’ve done it before. Your anchor’s not going to murder me for this, right?”
“It’s not you I’ll blame if this makes him relapse,” Donovan answered darkly, still glaring at me.
I patted his knee reassuringly. “It’ll be fine, Freeman. And I think this might be the best way to track him, if you guys can’t do it the conventional route.”
“I have to agree there,” Marc responded thoughtfully. “At least that way I can see exactly what energy I need to trace. Alright, we’ll be there tomorrow. A quick in and out, then leave you to recover again.”
“Sure, sounds good. See you in the morning?”
“Yup, see you then.”
Donovan hung up the phone, still glaring at me. “You workaholic. What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Love me,” I responded brightly.
For some reason, he just groaned.
Freeman and Marc came in the next day, Gonzalez on their heels. The trio looked tired, understandably so—they’d been running about like madmen while I’d been flat on my back asleep. I felt vaguely guilty about that, but in truth, even if I’d been up to it, I wouldn’t have been helpful anyway.
Stepping in through the front door, Freeman got a good look at the ground floor of my place, his head panning the room with its overstuffed couches, large screen TV, pool table, and the long bar separating the space from the kitchen. “Not what I was expecting when you invited us over. What did this place used to be?”
“Pizza parlor,” I answered, coming around to shake the man’s hand. “How are you, Freeman?”
“Not bad, all things considered,” he answered with a grin that emphasized his crows’ feet. Freeman had that silver fox look going for him, his light blond hair mostly grey at this point, prominent cheekbones sharp in his face. When I’d first met him, I thought him sexy, but the man had aged very well. I knew his wife was quite smug about it, too. “So this is your anchor, I take it?”
Releasing his hand, I took a half-step to the side in order to introduce the two. “Yup. Donovan, Agent William Freeman. Freeman, Donovan Havili.”
The two men shook hands, and I could see when Freeman clued in a little. Unlike me, he couldn’t visually see squat; it took physical contact before his psychic ability kicked in. As a clairvoyant, he read and worked with psychic energy, usually boosting the psychics near him, but he was a fair hand at reading auras, too, if in a different manner than I did. His eyes grew progressively wider in his face the longer he held Donovan’s hand. For a psychic of his caliber, he wouldn’t irresponsibly read people, but he could get plenty from Donovan’s general aura, and that was easily translated through touch.
“Shit,” Freeman said reverently. “Jon.”
“I know,” I said smugly. “You kept saying I was holding out for an impossible ideal. Proved you wrong, didn’t I?”
“More like he did,” Freeman said, finally dropping Donovan’s hand. My anchor looked a little embarrassed by this—he always did when a psychic got a first reading on him and reacted—but patiently put up with it. Freeman ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip, clearly thinking hard. “But I feel like I’ve met someone else with a similar aura. Any relation to Brandon Havili, by any chance?”
“My brother,” Donovan answered with a shrug.
Without turning his head, Freeman ordered, “Marc. Make a note. After this, we have to go capture the other Havili.”
“Way ahead of you,” Marc retorted.
“I feel like calling my brother after this, for some reason,” Donovan noted to the air in general.
“Don’t warn him off,” Marc growled, half-teasing. “He’s already escaped me once. But after seeing how good of an anchor you are, we can’t let the man’s talents get away. He’s eerily similar to you.”
“Only superficially,” Donovan warned him. “He’s more hot-tempered and tends to react more physically to things.”
Behind a hand, I mouthed to Marc, ‘He’s got a sister too.’
“And I see that, Jon,” my boyfriend growled at me in exasperation.
I blinked up at him innocently. Little ol’ me?
Sighing, Donovan requested, “Let’s get this done, please?”
Good natured about it, we shifted over to the couches. Freeman sat with me on one side, Marc on the other. Donovan and Gonzalez took the other couch, watching on curiously.
Freeman lowered his usual shields to open himself up, his hands holding each of ours, eyes closed as he focused. After forty years of doing this, he was able to link us up and connect within ten seconds. I blinked, then forcibly closed my eyes as well. The first time I’d done this, I hadn’t closed them, and that had been very disorienting. I kept my eyes firmly shut during these link ups now.
Knowing what they needed, I pulled to the fore of my mind what I’d read from Lieutenant Myers’ memory. I went from the moment she’d walked out of the store and spotted her attacker, then let the memory play out. I could feel Freeman’s fingers flex in mine, and I knew he was surprised by the memory I displayed.
Marc let out a surprised huff. “Wow, I see what you mean. It doesn’t look like a traditional psychic shield at all. More like this grey smear of energy. He’s not properly shielding, more like compressing. No wonder I couldn’t pick anything up from him.”
“You or Carol,” I agreed, still firmly focused on the memory. I slowed it down a touch, focusing on Rice himself. “Considering what I’m seeing, I’m amazed she could get anything from him.”
“Yeah, me too. Okay, I think I have a firm grasp on what I’m looking for. Thanks.”
We all dropped the connection and pulled back. My head twinged briefly, but I shushed it and kept any trace of pain from showing on my face. I didn’t want to worry Donovan—truly, two Advil wou
ld set me back to rights. Maybe a nap.
Freeman turned to Marc and asked in concern, “You think you can find him from that?”
“As difficult as he was to get a trace on,” Marc answered thoughtfully, “I strangely think it’s going to be easy to find him now. Before, I couldn’t get any sense of his energy—that’s what frustrated me so badly. But now that I know what I’m looking for? It’ll take some time to weed through an area, but I think I can manage it. It’ll be like looking for a black hole in a sea of stars. It’s there, I just have to look carefully.”
Freeman accepted this with a slow nod. “Fair enough. Jon, how are you?”
“I’m actually doing great,” I answered honestly. “I can rejoin you guys tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.” Freeman promptly turned to Donovan with an expectant expression. “And what does your anchor think about that?”
“That I’m more or less resigned to the fact he’s a workaholic,” Donovan responded with a wink at me. “But yes, he really is doing okay. I think he can handle tomorrow.”
“How come no one trusts me?” I demanded, mostly rhetorically. Somewhat rhetorically.
Donovan just looked at me flatly. “Do you want that list alphabetically or categorically?”
Okay, I might have stepped into that one.
Grinning, Freeman levered himself off the couch. “Then see you tomorrow. We’ll get back to work. Maybe Marc can find this guy for us.”
“I’ll certainly try,” Marc agreed, rubbing his hands together with a keen anticipation zinging its way through his meridian lines.
As they made their way to the door, I remembered a question I wanted to ask. “What about declaring Samuel Rice alive? How’s that going?”
Freeman paused in the doorway to answer, aggravation bleeding through him in sparks of orange. “Turns out someone in the coroner’s office in Colorado Springs hit the wrong button. It should have been ‘missing,’ not ‘missing, presumed dead,’ and he really shouldn’t have been declared dead in a single year.”
“I’d thought that odd,” I admitted. Normally a person had to be missing for at least seven years before someone could declare them legally dead. “So this was a clerical error?”