by Kay Hooper
“Oh, yeah. Way more things in heaven and earth than most people can possibly imagine. Things being studied and used in the field by the Special Crimes Unit and by Haven. And the first thing we’re taught, whether Haven operative or SCU agent, is how to build or use our walls—or shields, some call them. So we have some sort of control over our abilities and can protect ourselves.”
“Protect yourselves from what?”
“Negative energy. Usually from other psychics, bad guys. They’re as likely to have psychic abilities as the good guys are, maybe more so.” As her sister continued to look questioningly, Jessie went on. “It’s all based on energy, the energy the human body and the human brain produces. Think of psychics as having a receiver they can tune to certain frequencies. On one frequency, maybe you tune in spiritual energy, and so you see or hear spirits. On another frequency, maybe you tune in the energy of someone’s thoughts.”
“The way you do mine.”
Jessie nodded. “According to SCU research and experience, the reason no telepath can read a hundred percent of the people around them isn’t because of anybody’s shields or even the strength and control of the telepath, but because every human mind is unique: tuned to its own frequency. And a psychic’s…range…of frequency is naturally finite. Limited, like any other sense, and varying from psychic to psychic. I can read you sometimes, but not always, and even that doesn’t mean every other telepath you encounter would be able to. And there are lots of people whose thoughts I’ll never hear. Really lots, in fact, since my range appears to be very narrow.”
“But you’re worried about how well your walls are working here. Or not working.”
“Well, they’re not working the way they’re supposed to. As tightly buttoned up as I thought I was, I shouldn’t be picking up your thoughts, but they keep slipping through. I shouldn’t be seeing spirits—and they’re everywhere. This really is a very haunted town.”
“Most of the ghost hunters who come here tell us that, but the locals generally seem to humor them rather than believe them.”
“I’m not surprised. What most ghost hunters tend to view as evidence is pretty damned thin. Once you get involved in the real thing, though, it stops being about proof and starts being about how you can control your abilities and use them productively.”
“So you build walls.”
Jessie nodded. “We build walls.”
“So why aren’t your walls holding things out?”
“That is the question. Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer. Yet, anyway.” She hesitated, then said, “Emma, have there been any murders in Baron Hollow?”
Emma started visibly. “What, recently? Not that I know of. You know there’ve been killings over the years—hence some of our better-known ghosts. But crimes like murder don’t really happen in Baron Hollow, not these days.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Just…curious. Thought I might be able to help out the police chief if there were any local unsolved homicides. Who is the police chief, anyway? Anybody I knew?”
“He’s closer to Victor’s age than yours, I think. Dan Maitland.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“And he’s not crazy about ghost hunters, who we see a lot of and who he has to be polite to because they’re paying tourists. And he’s also not very fond of any kind of nonpolice investigators. So it might not be smart to tell him you’re basically a private investigator who’s also psychic.”
“I don’t plan to tell anybody that,” Jessie responded lightly. “Do me a favor, and keep it to yourself. In spite of the fleeting idea I might be able to help the local cops, I didn’t really come here for a busman’s holiday.”
Exactly why did you come? How do you mean to go about closing those doors on the past? And what are your nightmares about? Those parties you say you don’t really remember? Or something else?
But Emma didn’t ask out loud, and Jessie pretended that more thoughts from her sister hadn’t slipped through walls designed to hold them out.
THERE WASN’T A lot to do in Baron Hollow on a Sunday, and Jessie was too restless to stay at Rayburn House, so she went out for another walk after lunch. She knew that virtually all the downtown businesses, excepting a couple of restaurants routinely open since breakfast, opened up shortly after church let out, but were seldom busy, and she wanted to explore a bit in less crowded conditions than those she had experienced the day before.
As she strolled, pausing now and then to study the contents of a storefront window, she told herself that she neither expected nor wanted to encounter another spirit. Her walls, after all, were as solid as she could possibly make them, and at least half her concentration was fixed on keeping them that way.
At the same time, what the spirit had told her yesterday was also very much on her mind. A killer? Here? Jessie had been with Haven too long not to have learned that killers could be found in the most unlikely of places, often hiding in plain sight in unsuspecting little towns just like Baron Hollow, tourist towns, and her knowledge of that made it all the more worrisome.
And despite Maggie’s instructions for her to concentrate on why she had come here, Jessie was nagged by the possibility of a killer hunting in this small town, and nagged even more by the uneasy worry that if that was happening, it was somehow connected to all the buried stuff that had finally brought her back home.
If she had learned anything in recent years, working with Haven, it was that true coincidences were rare, and that the universe tended to put you where you were for a very good reason.
Was she here to uncover more than her past? Would uncovering her past also expose a killer?
Her imagination? Or trained psychic intuition? She wasn’t sure; that was the problem. Almost from the moment she’d hit town, she had been nagged by uncertainty and doubts.
But was that so unusual? Coming back after years to a place that held negative memories and even triggered stronger nightmares was bound to mess with her head, and she’d learned that psychics were especially vulnerable to that sort of thing, being influenced by their surroundings.
And by the baggage banging against their heels.
So maybe her mind had simply conjured a spirit warning of a killer because as much as she wanted to deny it, as much as she’d tried to deny it for years, she was afraid of this place.
Afraid to remember—
“Jessie? Damn, it is you.”
Despite being caught off guard by the timing, this was a meeting Jessie had prepared herself for. She turned to face her cousin Victor Rayburn, who was physically more impressive at forty than he had been at twenty-five, but who still wore on his handsome face the lazy half smile that had caused more than one teenage girl to melt into a senseless puddle at his feet.
Jessie didn’t melt. This time.
“Victor. I’m surprised you weren’t in church.”
“Because I needed to be or because the town expected me to be?” He looked and sounded amused.
“Six of one.” Jessie shrugged and slipped her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. “I hear you’re the man here in town. That must make you happy.”
“It makes life pleasant,” he admitted, still smiling.
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“And what about you, Jessie? What have you done with your life since you left Baron Hollow?”
“This and that. Jobs. School. Career. Usual stuff.”
“Career? Funny, I never imagined you having a career. You never seemed to have a specific interest when you were a kid.”
“Well, we all grow up, don’t we?” Jessie had no intention of telling Victor one bit more than she had to about her life, so she changed the subject abruptly. “Emma says you want to buy some of the land Dad left me.”
“Yeah, that parcel out by Willow Creek Church. Even the flat land so close to the mountain slopes isn’t good for much, not farming or even pasture, but it adjoins land my family’s owned for generations. I’ll pay the fair market price,
Jessie. Get your own appraisal if you want.”
“Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you make a decision before you leave town again; otherwise the whole thing will stay in limbo. Emma won’t part with an acre, and Trent isn’t going to sell off anything of yours without specific instructions to do so.”
“I’ll let you know, Victor.”
“Good enough. See you around, Jessie. And—welcome home.” He reached out to grasp her bare arm, squeezing it briefly, then went on his way past her.
FIVE
Jessie stood there for only an instant, then made herself continue walking, outwardly calm. But inwardly, her stomach was churning, and she felt very cold.
Hot breath on her face, stinking of cheap wine and whiskey. Dim lights and shadows. Noise coming from another room and laughter in this one. Hands touching her roughly, pulling at her clothes. A heavy weight bearing down on her. A sharp pain, and she tried to cry out, but there was a hand over her mouth now, other rough hands holding her wrists and ankles.
More pain, feeling her flesh tear, the hot wetness of blood. And then the pain was bearable, and she was whimpering so quietly she barely heard it herself, so the hand lifted away from her mouth. She turned her head to escape the foul breath, and through tear-blurred eyes she saw a muscled forearm.
She blinked, trying not to think about the panting and heaving, the raw soreness, the acrid smell of sweat, just waiting for it to be over. She concentrated on that forearm, on the muscled strength of it, strength she surely couldn’t have fought even if she hadn’t drunk too much.
And on…the marks. Scars? No…there was color.
A tattoo. A rose tattoo.
Her nightmare. Some of it. Maybe the most important parts of it.
Half under her breath, Jessie heard herself mutter, “A tattoo. He had a tattoo.”
She had no idea whether Victor had a tattoo; today he’d been wearing a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, and hard as she tried she couldn’t remember whether he’d had one fifteen years before.
He didn’t seem the type to consider a tattoo appropriate decoration or expression on a body he worked hard to keep in shape, but she was unwilling to trust either her judgment or her memory about that, not after so many years away.
But what if it was him? He was at those parties, almost always. And he was always egging me on to try all those different kinds of drinks. I remember that.
I think I remember that.
But had he done more?
He had been the one refilling her glass even if all she was drinking was beer; she remembered that clearly. Flirting with her. Touching her casually and yet in a possessive way that thrilled her because he was so much older and all the girls wanted him. And then there was the forbidden-fruit aspect of it.
Her father would have had a fit if he’d found out, and all the church biddies would have been appalled—and that had added to her excitement.
She didn’t want to cull through that flash of memory, but forced herself to. Three of them. At least three of them. Four? Laughing. Pouring whiskey into her mouth as they held her down. And then tearing at her clothes—
Jessie could literally see the curtain in her mind drop, cutting off the memories with an abruptness that was almost a shock.
She wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Not ready to remember all of it.
Absently reaching up to rub her bare arm where Victor had touched it, frowning, Jessie walked on.
CAROL PRESTON WAS a confident young woman and an experienced hiker. She had hiked all over the country, even in this general area near Baron Hollow—though it was the first time she had actually gone down into the town.
She didn’t linger. She’d been raised in a small town, and knew how boring Sundays tended to be. Very. So after enjoying her box lunch and the casual conversation of other hikers, she set off again.
She hiked with several others for maybe a mile or so, then bid them good-bye, with more reassurances that she really could take care of herself and would be fine hiking on her own. She struck off alone to the north, as planned. She’d gotten off to a late start because of the lunch and conversation, pleasant though it had been, so the afternoon was well advanced, and she’d hiked no more than another couple of miles over the rough terrain before deciding to make camp for the night.
She found a likely spot and went through the familiar motions of erecting her small tent and building a safe fire. Not that she needed it for warmth, but a campsite just wasn’t a campsite without a fire. And besides, she wanted coffee and her supper, and she wanted both hot.
She enjoyed solitude, and nothing happened to mar her experience that night. She enjoyed her coffee and her supper, and after sitting for a time gazing into the flames, she banked the fire for the night and crawled into her tent.
It was a warm night, so she didn’t zip the tent or her sleeping bag. The quiet night sounds of the forest were familiar to her, and lulled her quickly to sleep.
Nothing disturbed her rest or her dreams, and she never felt the presence of something that drifted into her campsite sometime after midnight and stood for a long, long time just watching her.
JUNE 29
She woke at dawn, as she’d expected to, and once again built a fire and cooked herself a meal. She cleaned up after herself and packed up her things, leaving the campsite nearly as pristine as she’d found it, with only a ring of rocks surrounding warm ashes to mark the spot where she had paused to rest.
Despite the narrow, twisting trail that was for long stretches often more imaginary than real, and the rocky terrain, she moved at a comfortably brisk pace. The bet with her friends this year included a nice little payoff for the winner: a good dinner that was not pizza every night for a semester.
She wanted to win.
Carol liked being alone, and liked hiking alone. Unlike some of her friends and fellow hikers, she never listened to her MP3 player while hiking; she liked listening to the sounds of nature all around her. Besides, she was no idiot; if you were listening to music, you could hardly hear any warning signs of danger.
And there were always warning signs. Or sounds.
It was probably a good hour or more after she’d left her campsite behind when it dawned on Carol that what was nagging at her and had been for a while now was the lack of sound. The forest was too quiet, and a nameless unease stirred in her. She stopped walking, listening intently, but heard nothing. Not even birds.
She looked around, turning in a slow circle so she could see all around her. There was nothing out of place. Nothing unusual that she could see.
And yet…
The hair on the back of her neck was standing out, and she felt herself growing gradually chilled despite the almost oppressive heat of the still, summer air.
All her instincts were screaming at her that there was something wrong here, something dangerous. Yet her senses told her nothing except that it was unnaturally quiet.
Trying to think quickly and clearly, Carol went over the map in her head and realized that she was probably as close to the main—and undoubtedly more populated—trail north of her location as she was to the trail back at Baron Hollow. She could make it within a few hours, she thought, well before dark. If she hurried.
So—push on, then.
Carol remained where she was long enough to shrug out of the backpack and get her pepper spray and gun out. She slipped into the straps of the backpack once again, settling it comfortably to distribute the weight, then did a quick but thorough check of her .22 Smith & Wesson revolver and clipped the holster to her belt. The pepper spray she carried looped around her wrist.
The precautions should have made her feel safer.
They didn’t.
The forest was still too quiet, way too quiet, and she felt too chilled for the summer air.
But she walked on, more quickly now. So quickly, in fact, that within only a few minutes she had to stop to catch her breath. At first, that was all she
heard—her own panting breathing.
And then a twig snapped.
Somewhere close.
EMMA STOPPED JESSIE in the reception area as her sister was apparently on her way out on Monday morning. “Look, should I take it personally that you’ve spent as little time as you possibly could here at the house so far?”
“I told you I’d mostly be wandering around town.” Keeping her voice low so as not to frighten any of the guests, Jessie said, “Besides, it’s not you; believe me. Right now, if I look past you into the living room, I can see a Prohibition-era woman standing near the fireplace, smoking. Using one of those old long cigarette holders. Jeweled. Did you know, by the way, that this house was the equivalent of a small-town speakeasy back in the day?”
Emma blinked. “There’s a mention in family archive records that an ancestor of ours was famous for his ability to get good whiskey even when it was outlawed. He claimed he just had a good cellar from before, when it was legal, but his neighbors didn’t believe it.”
“Probably because they helped transport it.”
“Jobs were hard to come by in those days,” Emma noted. “I imagine people took what work they could get, even if that meant the illegal transport of liquor. Besides, it’s not like it was a popular law with broad support.”
“True enough. And at least that ancestor of ours had the sense to share the wealth with the town. Anyway, given the…temperament…of those times, I’m guessing this house saw a fair amount of violence.” She drew a breath, and let it out in a quick sigh. “I’m told spirits generally don’t bear the marks of whatever killed them, and that’s been my experience up ’til now, but that woman has a bullet hole over her left breast.” Jessie paused, then added dryly, “I find that unnerving, and I’d rather not look at it.”
“Which is why you’re going out again.”
“Well, that and the practical need to look at the rest of the properties on this list Trent gave me and decide if I want to keep any of it. My reasonable excuse for wandering around, remember? Penny had the cook pack a lunch for me in case I’m out the rest of the day.” She lifted the lightweight backpack at her feet and shrugged into it.