Gifted: Empath

by Bonnie Dee

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Empath

  Copyright © 2008 by Bonnie Dee

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-224-4

  Edited by Anne Scott

  Cover by Anne Cain

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Gifted: Empath

  Bonnie Dee

  Dedication

  Thanks to authors Kate Rothwell and Morgan St. John, both of whom gave me critique help and plot possibilities when I was stuck, and to my editor, Anne Scott, who chose empathy for the Gifted anthology.

  Chapter One

  The pizza delivery guy was heartbroken, waves of misery rolling off him like mist from an early-morning lake and shrouding Jordan, who tensed, clenched his mind shut and stepped back. He withdrew his hand, which had accidentally touched the boy’s when he’d paid him. The wave of pain could have been from a broken heart, unrequited love, loss of a friend or family member, or from the sheer loneliness of being an adolescent. It could’ve been a precursor to suicide for all Jordan knew.

  On the other hand, maybe the boy with the complexion to match the food he delivered was simply depressed because he couldn’t afford some new Xbox game. That was the trouble with the damn “gift” or curse, whatever the hell it was. Jordan could only feel what other people felt, with no clue as to the cause of their emotions. It was a useless quality with none of the benefits of something like precognition or telepathy. He couldn’t handle a child’s blanket and find the lost kid, or walk into a room and know what had taken place there years before. All he could do was experience someone else’s joy, sorrow, guilt, anger, despair or boredom from a mere touch.

  There was nothing helpful about that. It was just a mind-fuck, seizing and shaking him when least expected—like now. He didn’t want to know about the boy’s unhappiness. He didn’t want to feel his pain. There was nothing he could do to change it.

  “Here!” After fishing an extra five from his wallet, Jordan held out the money. “Thanks for coming out. It’s a shitty night.”

  The kid gaped at the tip then snatched it, mumbling, “Thanks.”

  Jordan was careful to release the bill before their fingers touched so he didn’t know if the extra money brightened the boy’s mood.

  As the kid disappeared into the rainy night, Jordan closed the door and carried the warm pizza box to the kitchen. He’d forgotten to eat lunch so the aroma of greasy cheese and meat made his stomach rumble. The elemental desire to eat supplanted the last remnants of swirling emotion in his head and, by the time he’d opened the box and extracted a slice, he felt almost normal.

  Or what passed for normal these days. Hell, had there ever been a “normal” for him?

  He tossed a couple of pieces of pizza on a plate, grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed into the living room. After flopping on the couch, he turned on the TV with every intention of tuning into ESPN, but a breaking news story on the local channel caught his attention.

  The reporter’s shellacked coiffure filled the frame as she reviewed the sketchy details of the case. Local businessman Robert McKenzie had died from a gunshot wound, his body discovered in the living room by his wife when she’d returned home from an evening exercise class. The interesting hook was that the couple’s autistic ten-year-old son had apparently been in the house when the murder occurred. Whether he’d witnessed the killing or maybe been the cause of it was a matter for the kind of conjecture the press thrived on.

  Jordan changed the channel to basketball and settled back with his beer, but something about the case gnawed at his mind. The name McKenzie struck a chord with him. What was it?

  By his second piece of pizza, he’d managed to erase the niggling concern and immerse himself in the game, when the doorbell rang. He set down the crust and wiped his fingers on the side of his jeans as he went to answer the door. Back in his city-dwelling days he would’ve checked through an eyehole before opening it, but here in Welling he’d gotten into the habit of not even locking the door.

  The man standing on his front step was nearly as tall as Jordan. His receding hairline and full, round face generally gave him a cherubic look, but tonight Danny Stipe was frowning. Instantly, Jordan knew why the name McKenzie was familiar. Danny’s sister, Celia, was married to Robert McKenzie, the murdered man.

  “Danny. Don’t you own a phone?” He hadn’t seen his old friend in months.

  “I knew if I called you’d say no, so I wanted to talk to you in person. I need your help.”

  Before the words were even out of Danny’s mouth, Jordan was shaking his head. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t find any answers for you. I can’t read the crime scene.”

  “I’m not asking you to.” Danny’s broad face was paler than normal, upset.

  Jordan knew if he touched him he’d feel waves of distress and worry. He folded his arms, tucking his hands inside the crooks of his elbows, swearing he wouldn’t let Danny suck him into his problem.

  “Goddamn it, this isn’t just another case! It’s my family, my sister who can’t stop crying, my nephew, Mike, who won’t stop rocking and muttering. If we could just reach the boy, know what he’s feeling, it might help.”

  “Danny…”

  “Come on. I haven’t bothered you for over a year, even though there were a few cases where you could’ve helped.” His gaze fixed on Jordan’s. “But this is personal. I’ll do anything I can to help Celia and try to reach Mike.”

  Jordan sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. He’d never been able to deny Danny when he asked for help. “When do you want me to go?”

  “Right now would be great. They’re still at the house. Mike’s freaked out. Celia tried all her usual methods, but she can’t reach him and she can barely keep her own shit together.”

  Jordan wondered how his experiencing their pain could possibly help. It sure as hell wasn’t going to do him any good.

  “All right. Just give me a minute to get my shoes and keys.”

  • • •

  Danny and Jordan had been friends since they were kids, sharing or fighting over everything like brothers. It seemed Danny had always known about Jordan’s ability. You couldn’t be so close and hide something that elemental about who you were. As boys, it had been understood, but never discussed. Not until they were teenagers and Danny asked Jordan to find out if Theresa Sullivan liked him did he actually acknowledge his friend’s talent.

  “Dude, don’t just ask her. Touch her. I want to know what she’s really feeling, not just what she says.”

  Theresa had exuded a strong negative vibe when asked how she felt about Danny.

  “Sorry, man, she’s not into you.” Jordan didn’t tell about the rush of warmth directed at him or the look in Theresa’s dark eyes that confirmed what his body felt. She was hot for him. It didn’t take a special ability to figure that out. He’d stayed out of her way until she got the message he wasn’t interested.

  Danny had dealt with an adolescent broken heart and hadn’t asked for Jord
an’s help again until they were both adults. It was the year he was promoted to detective and needed advice on a case. He’d wanted to know if his gut feeling that a witness was lying was true. Behind his partner’s back, Danny had taken Jordan with him to question the woman and touch her. After a moment of casual contact, he found no essence of guilt or doubt.

  Over the next few years, Danny had occasionally called for help again. Jordan responded with increasing reluctance. His ability was growing stronger, and although he’d learned to shield himself somewhat from the flow of emotion when it became too intense, he found it easier not to touch anyone. People radiated too much pain, too many strong, dark emotions he didn’t want to know about—didn’t have a right to witness.

  Now, as he followed the taillights of Danny’s sedan through a suburban Chicago neighborhood, Jordan thought about the final time he’d given his help. The case had involved a suspected serial killer, who the detective could only hold in custody for twenty-four hours. There was no solid evidence against him. Danny wanted to know if he had the right man before he spent too much time investigating him. He brought Jordan to the interview room, billing him as a psychological profiler for his partner’s benefit.

  The suspect was a bland-featured man, the kind one could talk to and never quite remember afterward, utterly forgettable. But when Jordan touched the suspect’s hand, a jolt of incredible rage and fear tore through his body like a hurricane wind. The man was so saturated with hatred it towered like a sinister thunderhead over every other passing emotion he might have.

  Jordan had let go instantly and fought back the nausea that overwhelmed him. Fists clenched in his lap, he’d listened silently while Danny asked the man a few perfunctory questions then quickly ended the interview.

  He quizzed Jordan out in the hallway. “Well? You’re pale as a fucking ghost. He’s my man isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know if he did the crime, but he’s a damn scary individual.”

  Danny had taken that as a “yes” and thanked him for coming to his aid.

  Driving home afterward, Jordan had felt sick from his contact with the man, his mind vulnerable and his defenses weak. When the car directly in front of him hit the brakes and swerved to the left, he’d barely reacted in time to do the same. The sounds of squealing brakes and crashing metal signaled a highway pileup.

  Jordan steered his car safely to the shoulder then jumped out. He and the guy from the car in front of him waded into the carnage of twisted vehicles and began helping people. The following hour was the most excruciating of his life as he pulled bloody, injured bodies from cars and felt the fear, shock and pain of each person he touched. He made every effort to clamp down the inner wall he used to separate himself from others’ emotions, but could muster no more than a transparent veil that barely sheltered him from the assault.

  The last straw was the little girl Jordan found near a destroyed Toyota. She was crying for her mother and, when he took her in his arms, the bewilderment, terror and longing for her mother were almost more than he could stand. He fought the desire to thrust her from him while soothing and assuring her as best he could—even though he could see her mom lying halfway through the windshield and clearly dead.

  He grimly waited for paramedics to come and cradled the wailing child until she was silent. The moment of her death was as abrupt and final as a light switch being turned off. He felt her. And then he didn’t.

  That night, Jordan got blind drunk and passed out. When he woke in the morning, he cancelled the lease on his apartment and moved out of the city to a quiet house in the country. He began working from home. Designing computer software didn’t require much time at an office. After that, he rarely drove into Chicago, hardly venturing off his own wooded property except to get groceries.

  Until tonight. Christ, he didn’t want to do this.

  Danny drove past stately homes and pulled up in front of a driveway with crime tape sealing it off from the street.

  Jordan parked behind him and got out. They ducked under the crime tape and walked up the drive. There were still cops on the scene. Danny flashed his badge, and he and Jordan were allowed through.

  “Thanks for coming,” Danny said. “Celia’s frantic. She refused a sedative for Mike since it might interact with his meds, and she won’t let them take him to the hospital. He doesn’t do well in new places.” He shook his head. “Damn, this is all so surreal. I can’t believe Robert is dead.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Celia went to her Pilates class and when she came home at eight, she found Robert in the living room, Mike in his bedroom. No sign of struggle or forced entry. The gun was Robert’s and was placed in his hand, but from the angle of the wound it didn’t appear self-inflicted. It was an attempt to make it look like a suicide.”

  Jordan’s stomach lurched as they entered the foyer. To the left in the living room, a forensic team was marking things and taking photos and samples. He looked away, not wanting to see the aftermath of Robert McKenzie’s death.

  Danny led him upstairs then stopped in the hallway, grabbing Jordan’s arm. Shock, sadness and anxiety flowed from the point of contact. “Hey, I’m serious. Thanks for coming. Whatever you can do, I appreciate.”

  Jordan swallowed and resisted the urge to shake Danny’s hand from his arm. “You know, I can only tell you what he’s feeling. Nothing more than that.”

  Danny released him. “Maybe that’s all you think you can do, but over the years I’ve seen how people react when you touch them. I’ve felt it myself. You have a greater power than you know.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Danny looked toward a half-open bedroom door then back again. “Maybe you take some of people’s emotional baggage onto yourself. That’s why it wrecks you so much.” He smiled and shrugged. “Or maybe I’m full of shit. It sounds weird when I put it into words.”

  Jordan hated to talk about his strangeness, too. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

  They headed toward the open bedroom door, but stopped when a voice from behind intercepted them. “Detective Stipe?”

  They both turned. The woman walking down the hall toward them was beautiful. Her brown hair was pulled into a casual ponytail, but clear hazel eyes in a perfectly oval face gave her the aspect of a Renaissance painting of a saint. Her angelic features contrasted with the grim set of her mouth and tight jaw.

  Avenging angel, Jordan thought.

  She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear and held out her hand, one raised eyebrow expressing her curiosity about Jordan. “I’m Detective Lauren Sadler.”

  “Jordan Langley. I’m an old friend of the family.” Jordan couldn’t refuse to take her hand. During the few seconds of contact, he felt a potent mix of feelings pour from her: tension, frustration, suspicion, uncertainty and an unexpected spike of sexual arousal. By the time he withdrew his hand, he knew Lauren Sadler was awash in self-doubt and conflicting emotions waged war within her.

  Frowning, she rubbed her fingers against her palm and turned to Danny. “I’ve finished questioning Celia if you want to take her and Mike to your house. I can’t get anything out of him in his present condition.”

  “My nephew wouldn’t be easy to question on his best day, but he can communicate in his own way.” Danny’s tone was brusque. “Jordan’s here to help.”

  “Are you a psychologist, Mr. Langley?” Her keen eyes narrowed slightly, assessing him.

  “Not exactly. I’m just…” Jordan trailed off, unable to come up with a single good reason to explain his presence.

  “Look, you can ask about his credentials later. For now, I just want to get Mike calmed down, and if Jordan can do it…”

  Sadler glanced back and forth between them. “All right.”

  Danny led the way into his nephew’s room.

  Jordan took a deep breath, bracing himself for an onslaught of traumatic emotions.

  Chapter Two

  Who the hell was this gu
y?

  Lauren followed behind Stipe and his tall friend, her eyes drawn to the breadth of Langley’s shoulders and the shock of shiny black hair that straggled messily over his collar.

  More importantly, why was she about to let him talk to her witness? She’d made no headway with the boy over the past few hours. His own mother couldn’t get him to stop rocking and muttering numbers. This guy, Jordan Langley, had already admitted he wasn’t a psychologist, so what business did he have here, what connection to the McKenzie family, and could that connection make him a suspect?

  Last, but not least, why was she checking out his ass? She was in the middle of a murder investigation, her one witness incapable of speech. This was no time to be staring at long legs and narrow hips in loose blue jeans.

  Lauren turned her attention to Mrs. McKenzie and her son. Celia sat cross-legged on the floor, near but not touching the boy. He was staring at the floor, only the top of his sandy blond hair and a slice of his profile visible. He was small for a ten-year-old. Or at least Lauren thought so. She didn’t know that much about kids. Mike’s shoulders were hunched and he rocked slightly back and forth, exactly as he’d been when she’d left to talk to Warren, the head of the forensics team.

  Stipe squatted beside his sister, resting a hand on her back. “Jordan’s here.”

  Celia glanced up at Langley. “It’s been a long time.” From her expression, she was as perplexed as Lauren about why he was there.

  For that matter, Langley himself seemed uncertain. He swallowed and clenched his hands lightly at his sides. He gazed at Mike, who continued muttering equations and making calculations with his rapidly moving fingers. Celia had explained this mental exercise was his touchstone, his method of achieving calm in the midst of chaos. How did Jordan Langley intend to reach through the protective shield of numbers and contact the boy?

  Langley was one of those loose-limbed, gangly men who appeared to be uncomfortable in his own body. He lowered himself to the floor near Mike, folding his long legs awkwardly. A few moments passed before he extended a tentative hand and touched the boy’s bare forearm.