Touched (Second Sight)
Page 7
“No, that’s all right,” she said quickly, holding up her hands to fend him off as she continued to back away.
Then she ran through the swinging doors, one gloved hand covering her mouth.
• • • • •
“Here we go,” muttered Prentiss, as he poured milk for his cereal.
He sat at the folding card table in the kitchen-slash-living room of the studio apartment, the small TV set next to the sink. The podium in front of the giant lawn was empty but as Prentiss settled into the folding chair and set the milk carton down, the father came to the microphone.
“Thanks for giving us your time this morning,” said the older man. Like yesterday, when he and his wife had begged for information regarding Esme, he was wearing a dark brown, pin-striped suit and black tie. “We have an announcement to make.” He glanced nervously down at the index card in his hand as cameras clicked furiously. “Actually, it’s more of an introduction. So,” he said, glancing off camera, “let me just introduce Isabelle de Grey.” He walked off in the direction he’d glanced and suddenly the psychic was on screen. The firing of flash bulbs and shutter releases exploded as she replaced the father. The woman was pretty, Prentiss thought, as he spooned a mouthful of cocoa-flavored balls into his mouth. Instead of the hurried shots of her running down the sidewalk or riding in the back of an SUV, the camera focused on just her.
“As many of you have heard,” she read from a quaking sheet of paper that she held in front of her. “My name is Isabelle de Grey and I have been referred to as a psychic.” Prentiss’s ears pricked up. “But I’d like to state, for the record, that I am not.” Prentiss stopped chewing. “I do not claim to have any abilities beyond those of the every day and the physical. I am not a psychic nor do I believe that such people exist. I have been here,” she glanced off camera but had to blink at the sudden fury of flashing bulbs, “with the Olivos family as a friend and supporter. I see now, though, that my presence has only been a distraction from the real and only reason that any of us should be here: to see Esme safely returned to her family. Therefore, I’m leaving and I apologize to the Olivos’s for any harm I might have caused.”
With that, she simply folded the paper in half and left. A cacophony of voices immediately filled the air. Questions were shouted.
But Prentiss didn’t hear them. Instead, he stared down at the soppy cereal in his bowl and the spoon that he gripped in his shaking hand. In one savage movement, he swept everything off the table–the bowl, the milk carton, the old newspapers. They crashed against the cabinets under the sink, milk and cereal spewing in every direction, before clattering to the floor.
“No!” he wailed.
CHAPTER NINE
“Just leave the entire box,” Isabelle told the agent. “I’ll just be here.”
The evidence room wasn’t exactly a room. It was more like a giant wire cage with metal shelving stacked high with cardboard boxes. The agent set the box on the metal table and glanced at Sergeant Dixon, who’d driven her here. The evidence room at the FBI headquarters in LA wasn’t a particularly cheery spot. But right now, that actually suited her.
The agent glanced at her and then the police sergeant but then he shrugged and left.
“You don’t have to stay,” she told Sergeant Dixon, putting her purse on the table and opening the box.
“Well,” he replied. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to stay.”
“Suit yourself,” she said.
After the press conference, she’d been livid. Her cell phone hadn’t stopped ringing with calls or chiming with texts. Probably clients wanting their money back, she thought. She’d turned it off. Nor had she spoken to Mac, though he’d tried to talk to her. Instead, she’d stormed out.
But once she was in the car with the sergeant, she had come to a decision: to stop following everybody else’s orders, their leads, and their tips. She’d make her own. She was a psychic after all. And she’d prove to Mac, once and for all, that it was no lie.
The sergeant had looked at her out of the corner of his eye when she’d asked where the objects from the parking structure would be. He hadn’t objected in the slightest to bringing her here and the way he wanted to stay suggested he might not be as doubting as the other police and FBI agents.
Except, once upon a time, she’d also thought Mac was different.
Even as she overturned the box of bagged and tagged objects onto the table to spread them out, she thought of him. How could he think she was lying? Or maybe he thought she was deluding herself. She didn’t know which was worse. And who was the dark-haired woman who made him sad?
The sergeant helped her space out the objects, turned them over so they weren’t hidden by the paper tags inside the small bags.
“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
For whatever causes the least pain, she thought, as she took a seat in the only chair in the cage.
“I’m looking for common people,” she said. “The same person who might show up more than once, specifically Esme or the man in the dark suit. I’m hoping that one of these things is going to have him.”
“Then you’ll know who it is?”
“If it belonged to him, yes. If it belongs to someone else, I might only get a better look at him.”
“The chances of him having dropped something are going to be pretty low,” the sergeant said, turning over a bag with a quarter in it.
“I know,” Isabelle said, unbuttoning the tiny clasp of her right glove.
“If you want to start removing those objects from their bags and just rest them on top, that’d save some time.”
In response, the sergeant picked up the first bag.
“But wear some latex gloves,” Isabelle said quickly. “Or I’ll read you.”
He stared down at the bag as though it’d come alive in his hand.
“Right,” he said slowly.
At the doorway, they’d passed a box of disposable gloves.
Isabelle looked down at the silicone earbud cover in the bag. No point in stalling. There was no way to tell what might prove useful or not without reading it. She opened the bag, took off her glove, and dumped the dirty little piece of rubber into her hand.
She was in a classroom with a slideshow going on. Sleepy. Trying to take notes. At the head of the class was an older woman who droned and, in between them, a sea of people’s heads. She was riding a bike home but not in a part of campus Isabelle recognized. Now it was nighttime.
Isabelle dropped the earbud piece onto the plastic bag and took a deep breath.
Nothing.
As her vision of the evidence room returned, she realized that the sergeant was already halfway through unbagging everything. He’d laid the bags out in a rough grid pattern, ten by ten. There were nearly one hundred items.
“Wow,” she muttered.
“I’ve arranged them by floor,” he said. “So it’s not as bad as it looks. The row closest to you,” he said pointing, “is from the first floor. Like the piece you just, uh, read.”
She smiled at him. At least he wasn’t a naysayer.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
On top of the bag at bottom right was a yellow highlighter pen. She lightly laid her fingers on it. A textbook jumped into view and the highlighter traced a bright yellow band over an equation in the center of the page. She was hungry, the library was too cold, and her back hurt. She crossed the street to the parking structure. Another student in a car, a woman, started to follow her to her parking space. A priest passed her on his way to the street. A male student was just leaving the first floor, taking the stairs up. Geez, she hated it when cars followed you to find your space.
Isabelle lifted her hand from the pen and let her eyes focus again. At least that had had some views of the parking structure. She took a breath and reached to the next item–it was a penny. Her hand hesitated, hovered just above it.
“A lot of people have handled that,” said the sergeant.
“Are you all right?” asked the sergeant quietly.
She nodded and glanced over the rest of the items. Two pennies and a quarter, up on the higher levels of the structure. Something to look forward to.
• • • • •
Prentiss listened to the phone ringing as he danced back and forth on the balls of his feet. When he’d removed the gag from the girl, there’d been hardly any spit. Two days without water. She might make it another. But without the television coverage and buzz that the psychic created, what was the point?
“Hello?” a man answered.
“Get the fucking psychic!” Prentiss screamed into his cell phone. “What the fuck is the matter with you people?”
“Hold on,” said the man. “Just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Get the fucking psychic.”
He heard the man tell someone to get Isabelle.
“There,” the man said. “We’ve sent for her. She’ll be here soon.”
“Who am I talking to?” he screamed. “Is this the father?”
“No,” said the voice calmly. “This is Gavin MacMillan, FBI.”
“Well get the fucking father on the line!”
A distinct clicking noise immediately followed.
“This is Esme’s father,” said an older man. Prentiss recognized his voice from television. He started to calm down.
“That was a stupid thing you did, Esme’s father,” Prentiss said, his voice shaking. “Stupid.”
“Can I speak to Esme?” the father asked.
“No, you cannot speak to Esme!” Prentiss yelled, instantly angry again. “You speak to me. I speak to God and you speak to me! You got it?”
“Please,” the man said. “Just let me hear her voice.”
Prentiss wolfishly grinned.
“You want to hear her voice?” he said, digging in the front pocket of the dark slacks. He brought out the switchblade. “Do you?” he yelled into the phone as he flicked the knife open. The girl had seemed vaguely aware of him with all the screaming but the glinting blade seemed to really catch her attention. “Tell me you want to hear her!” Prentiss screamed.
“Yes,” yelled the father. “Yes, I want to hear her.”
“Well here you go,” Prentiss said, as he slowly drove the tip of the knife into her bent knee.
Her blood-curdling scream echoed off the cement walls, pinned his ears back, and almost drove him wild with its indescribably pure tone of pain. God, it was glorious. He twisted the blade and she screamed anew. He almost ran it up her thigh when he suddenly stopped.
He stared at the phone. How long had he been on?
He snapped it shut with a sudden squeeze and jumped back, withdrawing the blade.
How long had the phone been on?
• • • • •
Isabelle heard the sound of running feet just as she was about to touch the first item in the row for the third floor of the structure. The police sergeant’s hand went to the inside of his jacket as he turned toward the door.
The FBI agent who’d let them in came to a skidding stop in the doorway.
“Let’s go,” he said breathlessly. “Right now.”
CHAPTER TEN
Mac jammed his thumb on the phone’s off button and hurled it across the room into one of the low, cushioned chairs.
“Dammit,” he growled.
Ben's stricken face said it all.
“What?” Anita shrieked, looking between the two of them. “Is she…is she…?”
She choked up, both hands pressed to her chest.
“She’s alive,” Mac said quickly. “No, Anita. Esme’s alive.”
“What?” she breathed, staring at him, her mouth hanging open. “But if she’s alive…”
There was silence in the room as Mac and Ben stared at each other.
“God!” Anita yelled, looking frantically between the two of them. “Tell me! What?”
“Esme was screaming,” Sharon said from behind him.
Anita’s eyebrows furrowed and her mouth opened as though she were going to say something. Suddenly, though, her face blanched and her knees started to buckle. Mac darted forward and caught her as Ben tried to help from behind. They managed to get her to a chair before she completely collapsed.
“Water,” Mac said over his shoulder. “And call a doctor.”
Anita’s eyes were half-closed and Ben patted her hand insistently.
“Honey?” he said. “Honey, can you hear me?”
Mac felt someone tug at his elbow. It was Sharon. With a firm grip he wouldn’t have expected, she dragged him back to the couch. There couldn’t have been a cell tower triangulation. That call had been shorter than the first.
“Did you hear it?” she said, leaning close. He looked at her incredulously. Of course, he’d heard it. Everyone on the phone had heard that gut-wrenching scream. “The background,” she whispered. She motioned for the agent across from her to rewind and handed him her headset. “Listen,” she said. He quickly put them on, stretching them to fit his larger head. She cued the other agent.
‘That was a stupid thing to do,” the killer said. And just then, in the background, there was a sound. Dim but long. Muffled but low in tone. It happened again just as the killer repeated the word ‘stupid.’
“Top priority in DC,” Mac said. “I want it isolated yesterday.”
• • • • •
Though Isabelle had stolen a few looks at Mac as she passed through the living room and crossed to the stairs, he hadn’t seen her. The room was buzzing about the way the killer had called, absolutely enraged that ‘the psychic’ had left. And then, he’d apparently punished Esme and made her scream. No one would even speculate on what he’d done. Mac had been deep in conference with Sharon and Ben, the three of them bent over Sharon’s computer, their heads almost touching.
Anita had been resting upstairs and a doctor had been called to give her a sedative. True to form, though, Anita had refused it. By the time Isabelle arrived, an exhausted Anita was slumping at the edge of her bed.
Isabelle immediately sat next to her and took her hand.
“Anita,” she said quietly, but Anita didn’t acknowledge her, her stare fixed on the floor.
“You need to rest,” Isabelle tried again, rubbing her hand. “You have to get some sleep.”
“No,” Anita said, her eyes dull and voice monotone. “If that were someone you loved out there, could you sleep?”
Tired and drained, Anita’s face was also haunted. The phone call had obviously been horrific and now they were waiting for another, possibly to hear Esme scream again.
“I read some of the objects from the parking structure at the campus,” Isabelle said into the silence. Anita blinked a few times and stopped staring at the carpet. “Mostly school stuff,” she said, trying to keep her tone casual.
“Did you see anything?” Anita asked, looking at her now.
“Everything,” Isabelle said, grimacing. “I saw too much.” Anita’s puzzled look made her go on. “Lots of people, places, situations, emotions, and physical feelings. But nothing about Esme. Nothing about the man in the dark suit. I’ve only seen either of them once, from the boy with the skateboard.”
“Oh,” Anita said, sounding disappointed.
“But I’m not done,” Isabelle said quickly. “I’ve got another six levels of the parking structure and…I think it’s time to read some of Esme’s things here.”
“I thought you said that her dorm roo
m would be the best.”
“It ought to be the best,” Isabelle agreed. “And I tried there. But I’m always looking into the past. The only thing that I can hope to see is someone or something that crops up over and over again, someone in common. It’s a long shot but, right now, it’s all I’ve got. I’m stuck here, by the phone.”
Anita didn’t move but her eyes flicked to the telephone on the nightstand.
“Look,” said Isabelle, laying her gloved hand over Anita’s. “Just tell me where her room is. There’s no need for you to be there.”
“No,” said Anita quickly. “No, I can do this. I’d rather be busy than waiting for that damn thing to ring.”
Isabelle helped her up from the bed and then down the corridor and into the room that Isabelle would have known was Esme’s even without Anita. There were track and field trophies everywhere. Anita sat heavily on the bed and Isabelle went immediately to the closet. As she’d done in the dorm, she went to the shoes. Though it’d be impossible to know which of her running clothes were her favorites or worn most often, the shoes were a different story. They were lined up at the bottom of the closet, heels out. Isabelle knelt in front of them. As she examined the heels of the three pairs of high-tech shoes, one pair was more worn than the others. The left back corner was nearly worn away.
The favorites? The oldest?
It was as good a place to start as any.
Isabelle removed her right glove and picked up the worn shoe.
Images of the street below flashed by, then the campus. Her legs were burning. She could see the seconds on her fancy wristwatch ticking by. There was the intramural field and the parking structure. She flew past, trying to beat her best speed. Isabelle was breathing hard now but faces were starting to appear. Esme’s roommate and, in a few different spots, a young blond boy with a beautiful smile. There was a priest. Students in her study group. She was thirsty. She needed a sports drink. There was the blond boy again.