Zack grabbed the purple blanket that was lying on the concrete. He flung it at the woman’s face.
The blanket found its target, wrapping around the attacker’s eyes for a few critical seconds. The old woman leaped back, swiping wildly at the fabric with her free hand.
Lesson Number One from the gym and the dojo: luck and surprise beat even the best reflexes every time.
The woman switched back to the ski mask persona.
Zack made no attempt to close with him. There was no way he could win in hand-to-hand combat with a hunter. He had to stay out of reach. The gun was his only hope. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. It lay on the concrete about ten feet away.
He was edging toward it when headlights suddenly flared, illuminating Ski Mask and himself in a blinding glare. A car was pulling into a nearby parking slot.
The black-clad figure hesitated again. Then he whirled and raced out of the breezeway into the shadows of the parking lot. Zack scooped up the gun and went after him, but he knew that the fleeing man’s superior reflexes and speed were going to trump his mirror talent.
Ski Mask arrived at a dark SUV that had been sitting at the far side of the lot. The passenger door was already open and the vehicle was in motion when he leaped up into the passenger seat. The big engine roared as the driver stomped down on the accelerator.
The vehicle, running with the lights off, slammed forward, aiming straight at Zack. It didn’t take any high-grade mirror talent to figure out that if he stayed where he was he was going to get flattened.
He leaped into the safety of the narrow valley between two parked vehicles.
The SUV sped past him out of the lot and onto the street. It vanished around the next corner. He was not greatly surprised to note that there was no license plate.
He heard a familiar ring tone. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the phone and flipped it open.
“Jones,” he said automatically, his attention on the streetlights at the intersection where the SUV had disappeared.
“Zack?” Raine’s voice was tight and urgent. “Are you all right?”
The anxious edge in her voice distracted him immediately.
“What’s wrong?” he asked sharply.
“I’m not sure. I got a little panicky a few minutes ago. For some reason I thought you were in trouble.”
“Huh.”
“You’re breathing hard. Oh, good grief.” She sounded utterly chagrined. She cleared her throat. “Am I, uh, interrupting something?”
It took him a second to figure out what she meant. “No. What’s going on, Raine?”
“Don’t snap at me like that. Pisses me off.”
“Damn it, what the hell is wrong?”
“I went to the closet to get your number out of my purse and I found something weird. If I’m not hallucinating, then I may have a serious problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
She drew a deep, shaky-sounding breath.
“I think the Bonfire Killer may have followed me home,” she said quietly. “He was in my condo tonight. Left a little souvenir.”
Twenty-four
He was at her door in less than ten minutes, which meant he’d broken every speed limit in Oriana.
When Raine let him into the condo her eyes went straight to the duffel bag in his hand. It was a straightforward clue that he intended to spend the night. She did not raise any objections. That spoke volumes about her common sense, he thought.
The two cats circled him a few times with interest and then allowed him to rub their ears. Satisfied, they trotted off into the living room.
That was when he realized that Raine was staring at him, her mouth open in shock.
“What happened to you?” she whispered, eyes widening.
He looked down and saw that his shirt was hanging loose beneath his jacket. His hair was probably mussed but, all in all, not too bad. He wondered why she looked so stricken. Then it dawned on him that she was picking up the energy created by adrenaline and violence.
“There was a fight,” he said. “The other guy got away.”
“You got into a fight?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.”
She glowered. “You told me you tried to avoid bar fights.”
“This fight wasn’t in a bar. Tell me about the cup fragment you found in your coat. Are you sure it’s a piece of the one you used in Shelbyville?”
For a moment he thought she was going to insist on pursuing the bar fight lecture but she reluctantly focused on the cup instead.
“I can’t be certain it’s the same cup that was on the tea tray,” she admitted. “But there was one just like it in my room. It was still there when I checked out.”
“I remember it.”
“He must have entered the room, found the cup, smashed it and left a piece here tonight.”
He looked at the locks. “How did he get into your condo?”
“I don’t know.” She hugged herself tightly. “There was no sign of forced entry. I didn’t pick up any bad vibes off the doorknob.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said absently, “not unless he was in a killing frenzy when he broke in. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wore gloves when he let himself in here. Psychic energy transmits most readily with direct skin-to-object contact. Gloves are fairly effective barriers.”
She shuddered and looked at the black-lacquered shelf positioned beneath a wall sconce. “He must have been in a rage when he smashed the teacup. That piece of china reeks of panic and fury.”
He followed her gaze and saw a fragment of broken china on the shelf. Steeling himself, he reached out and picked it up.
Dark energy crackled across his senses. A scene appeared and then disappeared in his mind like a film clip from a nightmare. It lasted only a couple of heartbeats. In that brief span of time he felt the cup in his hand, experienced the rush of rage and panic, abandoned himself to the sheer release of hurling the delicate china against a hard surface.
He set the china fragment back down on the shelf, trying to dampen the fresh surge of biochemicals shooting through his bloodstream. He’d already OD’d on that particular drug mix tonight.
“The freak was here, all right,” he said. “Or maybe I should say a freak was here. I never went into the basement of your aunt’s house in Shelbyville, so I don’t have a basis for comparison.”
“Trust me, it’s the same person.” She stared unhappily at the broken bit of china. “This is the first time one of them has followed me home.”
“Unnerving,” he agreed.
“Try scared out of my wits.”
He caught her by the shoulders and pulled her gently against him, wrapping her close. “Scared out of your wits is good. Scared people tend to be more careful.”
“No offense,” she said, pressing her face into the front of his shirt, “but that wasn’t quite the positive, upbeat approach to this situation that I was looking for.”
“Sorry. Probably a J&J thing. Fallon Jones holds with the everything-that-can-go-wrong-probably-will-go-wrong theory of psychic detecting. He becomes annoyed whenever his agents get too positive and upbeat.”
“Sounds like a real fun guy.”
“Look up the definition of fun in the dictionary and you’ll see Fallon’s picture right next to it.”
She made a strange, half-muffled little sound that could have been a choked laugh. Some of the tension went out of her. She raised her head.
“Tell me what you saw,” she said.
“I got a visual of what you heard. The bastard smashed the cup in a fit of red-hot rage and panic. He’s running scared. Blames you for ruining his plans.”
“He must have been watching me in Shelbyville, waiting for me to leave. But he took a risk going into my room. I wonder if anyone noticed him.”
“Good question. But there’s another possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe he wasn’t afraid of being see
n. Maybe he had a right to be in the B and B.” He thought about it a little more. “Could have been one of the employees or a guest. The inn was crammed with news crews. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone to blend in with a crowd of strangers in town.”
“True.”
“The big question here is what made him focus on you? As far as everyone back in Shelbyville is concerned, you and that real estate agent stumbled onto the victim by accident.”
She pulled back a little and looked at him with a shadowed expression.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but in my experience, the real freaks don’t make allowances for coincidence. Everything is a sign to them.”
He exhaled slowly. “You’re right.”
“The girl was found in my house, a witch’s house. He knows that I’m the witch’s niece. That makes me a witch, as well. Last but not least, he knows that I was there when his victim was discovered. The upshot is that he holds me personally responsible for ruining his latest witch hunt.”
“Any other traces here in your condo?”
“No. I did a quick tour while I was waiting for you.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a good look around.”
“I doubt if he stayed for more than a few minutes. Too risky.” He took out his phone.
“Who are you going to call?” she asked.
“First guy on my list is Chief Langdon in Shelbyville. Got a number for him?”
“Yes, but why bother?” She swept out an arm. “We haven’t got a scrap of proof. Langdon made it very clear that he doesn’t believe in psychics. What’s more, I got the distinct impression that he thinks I’m a leather-and-whip-style bitch. I don’t think he cares for that type.”
“Obviously a man of limited imagination. Get me the number.”
She rewarded that with the severe glare he no doubt deserved but she obediently reached into the closet and took out her purse. He watched her dig out a card.
“Personal issues aside,” she said, handing him the card, “all we’ve got in the way of hard evidence is that fragment of a teacup, which proves nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Langdon concludes that I broke the stupid cup and brought the pieces back with me so I could stage an attention-getting scene for the media. I could tell when I talked to him that he was just waiting for me to claim to be psychic.”
“But you didn’t give him the satisfaction?”
“Are you kidding? If I pushed that angle, he wouldn’t have listened to anything at all that I had to say about the killer. As it was, I’m pretty sure he thought I invented everything I did tell him.”
“I’ll call him, anyway. He may not pay attention but he can’t say that he wasn’t kept informed.” He punched in the number on the card.
A gruff, sleep-heavy voice answered on the fourth ring.
“Langdon here.”
“Wake up, Chief. Looks like your killer was in Oriana tonight.”
“Who the hell are you?” Langdon was fully awake now.
“Zack Jones. I’m a private investigator.” It was his standard ID when he was on a case and it was true. He had the license to prove it. All J&J agents did. The agency was a legitimate firm, duly registered as such in every state in which it maintained an office.
He gave Langdon a terse version of events.
Langdon was not impressed.
“You’re telling me that Miss Tallentyre believes the killer followed her back to Oriana just because she found part of a broken cup in her coat pocket?” he asked.
“She didn’t break it herself,” Zack said patiently.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m very sure of it.”
“Is she your client?” Langdon asked, suspicious.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve got a reason to believe her. I don’t. I’ve got a lot of solid leads to follow up. I can’t waste time.”
“The freak was in her condo tonight.”
“Why would he focus on her?” Langdon demanded.
“Excellent question.”
“Look, as far as the media is concerned, Doug Spicer, the real estate agent, was the one who was responsible for finding the girl. I didn’t give Miss Tallentyre’s name to the press.”
“Shelbyville is a very small town, Chief. Everyone there knows that she was with Spicer when the girl was found. More to the point, the girl was found in her aunt’s house. It makes sense that the killer would aim his rage at her. Although, come to think of it, you might want to check on Spicer and make sure he’s okay. It’s possible he’s in danger, too.”
“I’m not buying any of this,” Langdon said wearily, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call that detective with the Oriana PD and ask him to stop by Miss Tallentyre’s place tomorrow and check out the broken cup.”
That was as good as it was going to get. At least Bradley Mitchell would be predisposed to believe Raine.
“Thanks,” he made himself say, employing an unbelievable amount of willpower to remain civil.
“No offense, Jones, but your client is a strange woman. Got a feeling the polite term is unbalanced.”
“Good night, Chief.”
He ended the call without waiting for a response and looked at Raine. “He’s going to have Mitchell come by and take a look at your cup.”
“Well, at least Bradley will probably believe me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking, too.” He punched in another number.
“Who are you calling now?” she asked.
“Fallon Jones.”
“Why?”
“Because about twenty minutes ago some SOB of a para-hunter tried to gut me like a fish with a really big knife. Never did like knives.”
She stared at him, horrified. “The man who attacked you was one of those hunters you told me about? The kind that can see in the dark?”
“Yeah. Looks like Fallon got it right.”
She went from appalled to incensed in about half a second.
“How does any of this make Fallon Jones right?” she demanded.
He looked at her while he waited for Fallon to pick up. “He hoped that sending me here would draw some of the bottom feeders to the surface. Looks like his plan may be working.”
Fallon answered the phone on the first ring, sounding gruff and ill-tempered as usual.
“Give me some good news, Zack.”
“This will put the cherry on your ice cream sundae. A hunter with a twist tried to take me out tonight in a motel parking lot.”
There was a short silence on the other end.
“You’re all right, I assume, or you wouldn’t be making this call,” Fallon said eventually.
“You’re a real people person, Fallon. Yeah, I’m okay.”
“What about the other guy?”
“He got away.”
“Damn.”
“I agree. But I did learn a few things that you’ll want to factor into that computer you like to call a brain.”
“Such as?”
He knew he had Fallon’s full attention.
“The guy was a hunter, but he has this really cool trick where he morphs into a sweet little old lady right before your very eyes while he’s coming at you with a knife. Ever try to beat up on someone who looks like your great-grandmother?”
“Describe morph,” Fallon ordered in a voice that was as sharp as the knife in the attacker’s fist.
“The guy started out as a homeless man sleeping in a breezeway. I think that was just a standard-issue disguise. The tip-off was his fancy running shoes. The next thing I know there’s this little old lady coming at me with an umbrella, a really fast old lady. But it was hard to focus on her. Then, in mid-stride, the old lady transforms herself into a guy in black tights and a ski mask. Ever hear of a para-talent who could pull off that kind of illusion?”
Fallon was silent for a time. You could almost hear the synapses firing.
“Maybe,” Fallon said eventually. “I th
ink there are a few old legends in the historical records. I’ll have to do some research and get back to you. Anything else?”
“Hell, no. Haven’t even gotten to the exciting part yet. Been a busy evening here in Oriana. Looks like the Bonfire Killer followed Raine back here from Shelbyville.”
“Listen up, Zack, I don’t want you getting distracted by a secondary investigation. Is that understood?”
“Sorry about that, but finding out that Raine is now the focus of a sadistic killer is going to be a little hard to ignore. We don’t all have your ability to compartmentalize, Fallon.”
“So? You stick close to her. That’s what you’re being paid to do, anyway. Given your talents, she’s safer with you than she would be with an armed cop standing at her side. You can guard her while the two of you concentrate on finding out what happened to Lawrence Quinn.”
“You’re a very focused man, Fallon.”
Fallon pretended he hadn’t heard that. “If you’re finished, I have something for you. It’s not much but I’ve got a feeling about it.”
“I’m listening,” Zack said. Actually, he was listening very carefully. Whenever Fallon said he had a feeling, his agents took notice.
“My analyst just came up with one small but interesting insight into Lawrence Quinn. Turns out he’s a serious fan of the blues. I did some checking. There’s a nightclub there in Oriana that features a lot of jazz and blues. Place called the Alley Door.”
Twenty-five
Houdini. He hated the code name they’d given him. His name was Sean Tanner and not so long ago that name had been in lights. It was true that when the Nightshade operative had approached him he was a small-time Vegas magician, but he was moving up fast. He was destined to become a headliner at a major casino on the Strip. No one else could do what he did. His magic was the real deal.
Nightshade, however, had promised him more, a lot more. And they’d delivered.
He was way beyond being a low-rent stage act now. The drug had not only given him the additional talents of a para-hunter, it had enhanced his already existing powers of illusion. They told him that he was something new and different in the world of paranormal talents: a level-ten hunter-illusionist. He deserved some respect but he wasn’t getting it from January.
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