He looked at her over the tips of his fingers. “With my form of the talent I can touch a knife or a gun or a rock that was used to kill or maim someone and intuitively mirror the reactions and responses of the person who used the weapon. I can sense what that person intended to do or what the victim anticipated. I’m also pretty good in a bar fight.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled. “My ability makes it possible to second-guess an opponent. But I try to avoid that kind of exercise.”
“I should hope so.” She frowned. “Am I a mirror talent, too?”
“No. Clairaudient psychometry works differently. It’s not a visual talent. You are most likely a level ten like me, however.”
“How do you know I’m a level ten, whatever that means?”
“Members of the Society are ranked on what’s called the Jones Scale. It runs from one to ten, according to the level of psychic energy a person generates. The analysts came up with an estimate for you because your aunt never brought you in for testing when your psychic abilities developed in your teens.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. She could hardly believe that she was sitting there, discussing psychic talents with a man who acted as if such talents were the most normal thing in the world, like having brown hair or brown eyes. She had never had anything close to such a conversation with a stranger.
With the exception of Bradley, she had never even discussed the psychic side of her nature with anyone except Aunt Vella and her small, closely knit circle of friends. Vella had discouraged such conversations, reminding her always to keep her secret. Trying to explain herself to Bradley had been a serious mistake.
As if he knew what she was thinking, Zack gave her a sympathetic smile. “Damn, you’ve missed a hell of a lot by growing up outside the Society. How many other people with genuine psychic abilities have you met over the years, aside from your aunt and your father?”
“I tracked down people who claimed to be psychic,” she admitted. “Some worked as consultants to police departments. A couple made their living as fortune-tellers. One wrote a book on how to get in touch with your psychic side through your dreams.”
His teeth flashed in a brief grin. “I read that one. It was pure crap.”
“Yes, it was.” She smiled suddenly. “Good to know someone else came to the same conclusion.” She hesitated. “The book was on the best-seller lists for several weeks.”
“There are a lot of gullible people out there and lots of frauds who are only too happy to take advantage of them.” He regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “I’m getting the feeling that, with the exception of your aunt, every so-called psychic you’ve met as an adult has been either a fake or a flake.”
“My aunt was a major exception.”
“I know. And I’ll bet every time you looked into her eyes you wondered if you were seeing your own future.”
The intimate knowledge in his expression was a little unnerving. She wasn’t accustomed to being around anyone who understood her this thoroughly. She couldn’t think of a response.
“I’m going to tell you something that is not in that file,” he said, glancing at the envelope. “One of our analysts constructed a psychological profile on you. The conclusion was that it was a miracle that you weren’t confined to an institution or heavily medicated when you first came into your parasenses.”
Ice formed inside her but she managed to keep her face politely expressionless. “Does that mean your analysts think I’m going to end up in an institution, like my aunt?”
“Hell, no.” There was easy, absolute certainty in the words.
She held her breath, afraid to trust. “Why are they so sure of that?”
“Statistically speaking, psychological problems associated with parasenses kick in early, usually around the time the talents start to appear. Mid to late teens. If you were going to end up in a psychiatric ward or on heavy-duty meds because of your clairaudient abilities, you’d know it by now.”
“But Aunt Vella didn’t start having serious problems until she was thirty-two. The same age I am now.”
“I won’t kid you, no one knows why your aunt ended up in an institution. But it is extremely unlikely that it had anything to do with her talents. She managed those just fine into her early thirties.”
“But you said your analysts were amazed that I haven’t been confined to a psychiatric hospital?”
“Clairaudient psychometry, especially when it reaches the level-ten category of power, is one of the most difficult of all talents to handle because the sensation is so intensely disturbing. Without someone to guide you through the learning curve, it’s easy to believe you’re going crazy. Other people around you usually come to that conclusion immediately and send you off to a series of doctors. You end up on a lot of drugs or in an institution. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
She gripped the arms of the chair so tightly her nails dug into the upholstery. “It’s as if some stranger has invaded my mind. It’s so horribly intimate and it’s so evil. It makes me feel as if I’ve been…violated.”
“Trust me, catching a glimpse or two of what that stranger experienced when he shoved a dagger into someone’s chest is just as bad. It’s as if I did the deed myself. For a while afterward, I feel—” He broke off abruptly.
She sensed that he hadn’t expected to confide that much to her and wasn’t sure he wanted to add to it.
Then, very deliberately, he tapped his fingertips together again. Once. Twice.
“I feel contaminated,” he said quietly. “As if some of the darkness inside the killer has seeped into me.”
She searched his face. “That’s how it is for me, too.”
His mouth curved in an odd, bemused smile. “I’ve never told anyone that before. The stuff about feeling the killer’s darkness invading me, I mean.”
“Neither have I.” She took a deep breath. “I always assumed it would be stupid to go around telling folks that I’m afraid I might be absorbing some of the dark energy produced by a bunch of murderers and freaks. I didn’t want to alarm the people close to me, and it certainly doesn’t make for scintillating cocktail party conversation.”
“Those are the same reasons I’ve kept quiet about it, too.”
Shared secrets, she thought. The exquisite intimacy of the situation was indescribable. How could she be having a conversation like this with a man she had only just met? Where would it lead? Perhaps more to the point, where did she want it to go?
“It’s bad enough hearing the voices,” she said. “I can’t even imagine experiencing the visions.”
“What are the voices like?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“Whispers,” she said slowly, searching for the words. “But not real whispers, not real voices. My mind understands the difference even though I can’t explain it.”
He nodded. Deep understanding shadowed his eyes.
“It’s as if I’m standing in one dimension and there’s a very thin veil between me and another dimension,” she said. “Someone is on the other side of the veil, talking. If I pay attention I can make out occasional words. But I don’t hear the voices, at least, not exactly. I feel them.”
“When you pay attention, as you term it, what you’re really doing is opening yourself up to the stimuli your psychic senses are receiving, allowing your intuition to interpret the energy.”
“It’s like having a ghost walk through my mind.”
“Sometimes you hear the victims’ whispers, too, don’t you?”
She shivered. “Those are the worst. I hate the freaks’ whispers but when I hear the victims’ voices, it’s a million times more awful because I know it’s probably going to be too late to rescue them.”
“There are exceptions. That girl in your aunt’s basement today, for example, and that kidnapping victim you helped Mitchell find a few months ago.”
“True. But the happy endings are few and far apart. And with the cold c
ases there is never a good outcome.”
“Except justice,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“This probably won’t be much consolation but Arcane Society research indicates that it’s not the actual voices of either the freaks or the victims that you hear. What you’re sensing is the psychic residue of the emotions still clinging to the scene.”
“I understand, but why do I only sense the dark, terrible stuff? I never feel the happiness or cheerfulness that people leave behind.”
“The researchers believe there’s an evolutionary explanation. The brain’s primary job is to ensure your survival. Generally speaking, emotions like happiness or cheerfulness don’t represent a threat so, with the notable exception of sex, the psychic side of your brain has evolved to ignore the good feelings and concentrate on the bad.”
She felt heat rise in her face. “Sex?”
He looked amused. “Sex is directly connected to survival. Trust me, our psychic senses are very tuned into the vibes associated with reproduction.”
“Oh.” Probably best to let that subject drop.
“But powerful emotions such as fear and rage and twisted lust are all linked to danger so our parasenses have adapted to be more keenly aware of them,” he continued. “Our normal senses have, too, for that matter.”
She absorbed that. “I see.”
There was another silence. The sensation of intimacy in the small, fire-lit space grew stronger. She could sit here talking to this man for the rest of her life, she thought. The temptation was incredibly appealing and probably dangerous. Time to shatter the spell before it became unbreakable.
She straightened a little in her chair. “What do you want, Zack Jones? And please don’t try to tell me that the Arcane Society suddenly gives a damn about me. If anyone cared they would have been in touch a long time ago.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. She knew she had scored a point.
“I’m an agent for Jones & Jones,” he said. “Ever heard of it?”
Shock lanced through her. So much for the aura of intense intimacy. She called on every ounce of self-control she possessed and gave him her very best screw you smile.
“Oh, yes,” she said very softly. “I’ve heard of J&J.”
He nodded as if he had suspected as much. “So you do remember. I thought so.”
“I remember very well that it was a J&J agent named Wilder Jones who destroyed my father’s life’s work and burned his lab to the ground. I also think there is a very high probability that Aunt Vella was right in her theory that the man from J&J arranged for my father to die in that car accident. If you’re with Jones & Jones, you’ve wasted your time tracking me down. I can’t imagine any reason in the world why I would lift a finger to help you.”
Eight
We have a deal,” he reminded her.
Get a grip, woman, she thought. He was no longer the only other person she had ever met who truly comprehended what it felt like to live with her strange psychic talent. He was the man from J&J. She must not forget that.
“No, we do not have a deal,” she said. Damn it, she could be just as cool and emotionless as him. “You entered my room a few minutes ago waving that envelope and I accepted it. But I made no promises in exchange.”
“By taking the envelope, you gave me an implied promise.”
“So sue me.”
He smiled that easy, confident smile again. “Don’t worry, when you hear the story, you’re going to want to cooperate with my investigation.”
“Give me one good reason why I would want to help anyone from J&J.”
“Only one reason?” He shrugged. “My investigation is going to involve your family history. Will that do?”
“What?”
“I think you’re a lot like me when it comes to control. You like it and you’re good at it. I can guarantee you that the only way for you to exert some control in this situation is by cooperating with me. You’re smart and you’ll figure that out real quick. Once you do, we become a team.”
“You’re investigating my family?” She was beyond dumbfounded, she decided. She was baffled.
“Indirectly.” He glanced at the black steel watch on his wrist. “I’ll tell you about it over dinner, assuming we can find a quiet place to talk in this burg.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Using a level-ten talent takes an energy toll on the body. I’m always ready to eat after I’ve been jacked up.”
He was right. She suddenly realized she was ravenous.
“I really don’t think dinner is a good idea,” she said.
“Shows how much you know. Eating dinner is one of the best ideas I’ve had all day.”
There was no point fighting this. Now that he had dropped the first shoe she would not be able to rest until she heard the second. Besides, she was hungry.
“Think of going out to dinner with me as a medical decision,” Zack said.
“How does it get to be medicinal?”
“You really need a glass of red wine, don’t you?”
She thought about that. “You know, you’re right. This is very close to being a medical emergency.”
“Let’s go.”
With a deceptively easy movement he uncoiled from the chair, scooped the envelope off the low table, and went toward the door. He didn’t glance back at her. He knew she couldn’t resist going with him, knew she had to get the answers that only he could give her.
For some bizarre reason she was almost overcome by the urge to laugh.
“Damn,” she said instead. She pushed herself to her feet. “You’re good.”
He took her long black raincoat off the hook beside the door and held it for her.
“I know,” he said. “It’s a gift.”
They went out into the hall and downstairs to the lobby. At the front desk Burton Rosser looked up from a magazine. Burton was about as nondescript as a man could get, Raine thought. Even his age was hard to pin down. She guessed him to be in his late thirties but he could have been much younger or older. He was a fidgety, slightly built man with dirty blond hair and eyes that never stayed still. She got the feeling that he spent a lot of time looking over his shoulder. She wondered who or what was pursuing him.
“Lucky you called ahead and reserved a room before you got here,” he grumbled to Zack. “Place filled up all of a sudden.”
Zack looked out at the small parking lot. Raine followed his gaze and saw a small herd of news vans.
“Didn’t take long for the media to show up,” Zack said.
“Yeah, they got the rest of the rooms,” Burton muttered. “By the time the cops from Seattle and Portland rolled in, we were full.” He appeared relieved by that turn of events. “Had to send ’em down the road to the motel.”
Zack nodded, took Raine’s arm and steered her toward the door.
Burton stared hard at Raine. “Heard you and Doug Spicer were the ones who found that girl in the basement of the witch’s house today.”
Raine stopped suddenly and swung around to face him. The long folds of the black raincoat flared out around her boots.
She said nothing, just looked straight at Burton.
Burton flushed a dark red. He blinked several times very rapidly.
“I–I meant in the basement of y–your aunt’s house,” he stammered.
She did not respond. When she turned back around on her heel she saw that Zack had the door open. Amusement and sincere admiration gleamed in his eyes.
“You’re good, too,” he said in a low voice as she swept past him. “Damn. I don’t think I’m going to be able to resist a woman who can level a guy with one look.”
Nine
She held the umbrella high enough to shelter both of them from the steady rain. The damp, cold night air stimulated all her senses. She felt gloriously alive, energized and hungry in ways she could not explain. She knew the cause of the exhilarating sensation was the man walking beside her. It was as though he had somehow drawn h
er into an invisible force field.
By unspoken agreement they turned toward the neon-lit windows of a nearby restaurant. A pickup truck and an SUV went past on the narrow, two-lane street that was the town’s main thoroughfare.
Shelbyville was an old lumber town, typical of the many that were scattered around the heavily forested Cascades. The mill had closed years before, destroying the economic base of the community. In a desperate attempt to survive, the residents had attempted a makeover, hoping to attract tourists, skiers and city folk looking for a quiet weekend getaway. The effort had been only partially successful. There was a sprinkling of shops and galleries along the three-block walk that separated the B and B and the restaurant. But underneath the thin veneer of updated storefronts you could still see the worn-out bones of the doomed logging town.
“How did you know that I like red wine?” she asked after a moment.
“The J&J analysts pulled up your credit card purchases for the past few months when they put the file together.”
“I hesitate to point this out, but isn’t that sort of illegal?”
“Probably. I leave that to Fallon Jones. I’m a strong believer in delegating when it comes to stuff like that.”
“Who’s Fallon Jones?”
“The head of the West Coast office of Jones & Jones.”
“He’s your boss, then?”
“He likes to think so.”
“Is everyone in a position of authority within the Arcane Society named Jones?” she asked, not bothering to conceal her disapproval.
“Heck, no.” He managed to sound amazed by the question. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Let me take a little stab in the dark here. What’s the name of the current Master of the Society?”
To her surprise, he hesitated a fraction of a second before answering.
“Bancroft Jones,” he said neutrally.
“Has anyone with a last name other than Jones ever been Master?”
“You’re really trying to put me on the defensive here, aren’t you?”
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