"Well, she's not government. That's good. There's the doss.” Zeke shifted in the too-small chair
"I can see that. I suppose you already took a look."
"Just a peek. Curiosity."
"And?"
"Enjoy."
Zeke took over watching the house while Delgado settled down with the dossier.
Rowan Price, thirty, never married, psychiatric nurse and counselor at Santiago County Mental Hospital. Lived with her father, a certain Major Henry Price, decorated for bravery, discharged with honor. Mother died five years ago—stroke. No arrest record, good credit, no lawsuits—not even a library fine. Worked her way through school.
What's a psi this sensitive doing in a mental hospital as one of the staff? It would be more likely for her to be a patient. He flipped through the rest of it—mortgage on the house almost paid off, Daddy's last medical checkup. The old man had a heart condition. Her health was clean—she went in for a physical every year. How cautious of her. Other than some slight problems with low blood pressure and hypoglycemia, she was extraordinarily healthy.
There were even some pages from her employee file. Delgado scanned them. She'd turned down a promotion twice, citing her need to be available to care for her aging father. Despite that, her reviews were marked “excellent” except for one, from a certain Wendy Yamakari, head nurse. Yamakari apparently had it in for Rowan.
That wasn't half as interesting as the comments section on the reviews.
Rowan has a real gift for working with patients.
Calming, soothing.
Just like magic.
A psionic nurse, working quietly away in a mental hospital, trying to help the patients.
So why had she bolted last night?
Chances were, she was completely untrained. How was she keeping herself together, especially under the onslaught her job must represent?
"Curiouser and curiouser,” he muttered, looking at a grainy employee photo of her. She wasn't smiling, but she was still pretty, her eyes wide and obviously luminous, her hair pulled severely back. “Well, Miss Price. You're certainly an odd duck."
"Del? Someone's leaving.” Zeke twisted around in the front seat. “The garage door's opening."
"Who?"
Zeke lifted the ‘nocs, waited. “Looks like both of them."
"Okay. Let me out. You follow them. I'm going to recon the house.” It was a sudden decision, one that he might regret later. “Don't let anything happen to her, Zeke."
"Course not.” The van started with a swift purr.
"I mean it. Anything goes down, you keep her skin whole."
"I got it, Del. You coming or not?"
"No. I want to see where she sleeps.” Delgado slid out of the van, his little bag of tricks already strapped on. Messenger bags coming into style had been good news for covert operations. “Good luck."
"And you.” Zeke drove away, keeping under the speed limit, drifting after the ancient, silvery Volvo station wagon.
Delgado waited a little while, scanning the street from the shelter of a convenient laurel hedge. Nothing out of tune, even to his senses. He called in, but Henderson's voice mail came on.
Something must be going down, he thought, listening to the passionless electronic voice recite the number. After the beep, he paused for a second. “This is Del,” he said. “Instinct's taken over. Doing some recon. Zeke's got the subject. Call me if necessary.” Then he switched the phone to “vibrate” and stuffed it in his front jacket pocket.
It was child's play to penetrate the back yard: neat garden-boxes and a well-maintained, slightly shabby lawn that would be shaded by old oak trees and a high juniper hedge in summer. The back door, as he'd guessed, only had one deadbolt, and a few moments with picks made the lock yield. The whole house was empty and open, no invisible defenses except for the natural “static” surrounding people's houses. How a psi could stand to live here was beyond him.
A pretty kitchen with deep-green countertops, matching towels, and dishes piled in the sink met his inspection. Delgado's fingers itched to touch, even through latex gloves. He overrode the urge; it was weakness. Why did I come down on Zeke? He looked down at the coffee cups in the sink. They were blue and gray pottery mugs, handmade, obviously well-loved. He knows his job. I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know this woman. There was a rack of herbs in terra cotta pots set in the bay window, and an airplane plant hung over the counter by the back door. The plants glowed with health.
The house was comfortable rather than chic, overstuffed chairs, potted plants, soothing colors, very few sharp edges or avant-garde touches. A painting of a woman with long brown hair and hazel eyes hung in the foyer, watching the door with a benevolent smile. She looked enough like Rowan that Delgado guessed she was a family member. A ficus stood next to the stairs in a brass pot, green and succulent.
He went up the stairs slowly, savoring the feel of the house. Normal. Safe. A haven.
What the hell are you doing? You're not going to get anything from this. She's a civilian.
He told that voice to take a long hike and it went quietly, with very little fuss. His conscience usually did.
At the top of the stairs—the banister had been carefully repaired, probably by dear old dad—a hall led to two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small niche filled with bookshelves.
He tried the nearest room first. A military-neat bed with a plain headboard, shelves of books on military history and strategy shared space with New Age titles, psychic phenomena, and weird occurrences. Dad was a believer. There was an old-fashioned lamp with a green shade on his nightstand and a closet of neatly pressed suits, a duty uniform swathed in plastic, a Navy storage locker labeled PRICE held up four pairs of shoes. A pair of boots stood obediently on the closet floor next to the storage locker. The dresser held a mirror, an old ceramic washbasin, a Wandering Jew in a blue pot, and pictures in plain frames. Some of the pictures were of a smiling little blonde girl—Rowan. The other pictures were of the woman painted downstairs. Mom, then.
Delgado moved down the hall. The bathroom was spic-and-span, done in cream with touches of wine-red, the smell of soap still hanging in the air. The shower curtain was still wet. She took a shower here, he thought, examining the bar of soap. Bubble-gum toothpaste. Three different types of feminine shampoo—evidently she took her hair seriously. Dad apparently used Vitalis. There were some bath salts in the mirrored cabinet, but most of the space was taken up with medications for Dad's heart condition and the various ills of aging. The linen closet built into the wall held towels and sundries.
Now for what he'd been waiting for.
Delgado entered what should be her room.
Bingo.
Her exercise wear was thrown across the top of a plastic laundry basket that held crumpled nurse's scrubs. He took a deep lung full of the air here—this was where she slept. Christ, I'm really getting attached, aren't I? That isn't good. There was a breath of perfume, a female smell, his heart pounded against his ribs. He wondered what it would be like to hear her even breathing, to feel that pale hair brushing against his face.
A missionary bedstead of plain pine, its severe lines softened by a white down comforter and a white lace spread, lay rumpled and open. Her sheets were a sunny yellow, and the walls were painted the same color. Even in the dead of winter, the room would glow with sunlight. Four bookshelves, made of the same unvarnished pine, held books and African violets. A philodendron hung in the window, its leaves glowing green. There was also a large healthy mother-in-law's-tongue plant set in a yellow pot between the dresser and the window.
Delgado examined the books, his hands behind his back.
Poetry. Lots of poetry. Medieval history. Medical textbooks, a DSM, a Tabor's, Gray's Anatomy, PDR, NDR, guides to prescription drugs, a Mosby's, several books on nursing and psychiatry. No fiction, no science fiction, nothing on paranormal phenomena, nothing on psychics, nothing on the occult.
That was very interesting.
There was a definite section on ancient Rome, and some biographies—Churchill, Catherine the Great, Anäis Nin—a small section of modern history, and a smattering of books on death and grieving.
Does she even know she's psi? She has to. There's no way she couldn't. So what is this? She's obviously well-educated.
Her dresser held the first clutter he had seen in the house, a jumble of perfumes, a hairbrush with strands of ash-blond hair attached, a few crystal necklaces, earrings tossed in a small ceramic dish. A small rosewood jewelry box held a strand of pearls, two diamond necklaces, two wedding rings—both antique, probably heirlooms—an East Santiago High School class ring, a pair of antique ruby earrings, her father's dog tags, and a few bits of rhinestone costume jewelry from the twenties. There were a few crumpled bits of paper, a Mason jar almost full of spare change, an old driver's license ... and a clear glass paperweight, bubbles frozen forever. There was no mirror in her room, which he also found intriguing. The picture forming from her possessions was a very interesting one.
Her closet held several different pairs of scrubs, some dress shirts, slacks, a few business suits. No dresses, and no heels, either. Her shoes were serviceable nurse-shoes, sneakers, sandals, and one pair of engineer boots that had seen heavy use. Boxes in the back of her closet were labeled: Estate, Bills, Taxes, Personal, Photos, and Diaries.
He ached to open up the “Diaries” box or the one labeled “Personal,” but he didn't have time. She could come back at any moment. Zeke might not be able to call and warn him.
However, the “Diaries” box gave him a clue. A few moments of searching found a red Miquelruis notebook in the drawer of her nightstand. He stood, his feet placed carefully on either side of her fuzzy pink slippers dropped carelessly next to the bed, and opened the book, feeling a twinge of conscience that he hadn't felt in years. I have to know, he told himself. I have to know so I can keep her safe.
Her writing was firm and clear, beautiful just like the rest of her. He scanned through accounts of days spent on a psych ward, patients identified only by first initials, fellow nurses given titles like “Sourface” and “Sleepy,” and wondered if Rowan had any idea how desperate she sounded.
—managed to calm him down, but not before Head Hatchet yelled at him to stop being such a baby, which just made it worse. The woman has no compassion, she could see he was suffering, she just wanted to get to lunch. I did, too, but I couldn't have eaten anything if I hadn't made sure he was okay. He just wants to feel like someone's listening, they all do. Why is that so hard for people to understand?
—guess I am going crazy. If I didn't know I was mostly sane and that it's a repetitious objective phenomenon I would sign myself in. But it seems to work, so I just keep waiting for the day everything comes crashing down. Making no sense. Don't have to make sense here, it's just my rambleramble.
—The thing I can't understand is, if Dad's right and these “feelings” are real, which they seem to be, why can't everyone have them? I just want to be normal. Please God, make me normal.
—DON'T THINK OF UNPLEASANT THINGS. This was written in capitals, underlined, taking up a whole page.
—Hilary tried to fix me up with another one of her “friends” tonight. Disaster. He looked like a snake and acted like one, too, swallowing his chicken cordon bleu whole and yapping about his ex-girlfriend the weightlifter—
Delgado's breast pocket vibrated, startling him. He closed the diary, placed it precisely back, and then closed the drawer. There were a few other items in there—tissues, a battered romance novel with a ripped cover, a small bottle of sleeping pills—that would bear further examination later if he had time.
"Delgado,” he said into the phone.
"You want the bad news or the bad news?” Henderson said.
"Christ, you mean I've got a choice?"
"Sigma's in town. Looks like the telem leakage brought them."
"Fuck.” Del's stomach flipped. He forced it down.
"Yeah. They're doing sweeps. Haven't found a goddamn thing yet, but it's a matter of time before they trace us to that house. And once they're in the neighborhood—"
"They'll find her.” Delgado crossed to the window and looked out. Her window looked south onto the back yard, sunlight making a rectangle on the hardwood floor, filmy white drapes on either side. “Goddammit."
"How powerful is she, Del?"
"Too powerful to let Sigma get their claws in. You know what they do to the strong ones. But this one's fragile, General. Doesn't even know what she is. Thinks she might be crazy."
"How soon can you bring her in?"
"Depends on her. Don't want to spook her."
There was a long, crackling silence. Delgado had never said anything even remotely like this to the old man about a potential. “Are you personally involved with this one, Del?"
"I guess so,” he answered. “I don't know why. Just instinct, maybe."
"Be careful. But if it comes down to it, bring her in kicking and screaming."
Relieved, Delgado let out a short breath. “You got it. What's the bad news?"
"I still haven't ironed out that bug yet,” the General said heavily. “And Blake's team lost another operative."
"Fuck.” That made the second in two months. Sigma was hunting them down like dogs.
"Yeah. Look, I've got to go put out a few fires. Can you spare Zeke? I need manpower."
"Sure. Just leave me some wheels. I'd hate to have to steal."
"You got it. Be careful."
"Absolutely.” Delgado hung up.
It wouldn't be more than forty-eight hours at most before Sigma found her if they started scanning in sweeps out from the abandoned house. She was less than four blocks away—right in their critical zone. They would scoop her up, fill her full of Zed, and brainwipe her as soon as they realized she was an untrained psi. She'd spend the rest of her life with a Sigma handler, doing work for the black side of the government.
The thought called up an irrational flare of anger. You don't even know this woman, he cautioned himself. You don't know anything yet. And really, Delgado, you've done everything but sniff her panties now. You're sick. Do your job and get the hell out of here.
He wondered why she didn't have any pets while he bugged her bedroom and the kitchen, and he spent another few minutes locking the back door and setting up a few countermeasures that should at least keep her from random Sigma probes. If they were doing concentrated sweeps the counters wouldn't be very useful, but at least he'd know once Sigma came calling. Unless she did as she'd done last night and blew out the probes.
How am I going to make contact with her? She's well-insulated, if I read her right, not a lot of social contact outside her job and her father. And she's sensitive. I'll probably rub her raw. He retreated down the street, deep in thought, the used latex gloves stuffed back in his bag. How the hell am I going to make contact without spooking her?
His phone buzzed again. He ducked into an alley between two fences and flipped it open. “Delgado."
"Del?” It was Zeke. “Get your ass out here, man. We got problems."
It took less than a second for his brain to click into “work” mode. “Where?"
"Corner of ... Maple and Seventeenth, Shop'N'Save parking lot. I've marked a Sig transport, Del."
Delgado took a deep breath. His heartbeat slowed, adrenaline copper on his tongue, iron training smashing down his body's instant reaction to the news. “Okay. Are they engaged, or surveilling?"
"Surveil, it looks like. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ."
"Relax, Zeke. There's a bike I can boost and be there in minutes. Just monitor them. If they go from surveil to engaging, or if you even think they might, call me again, okay?"
"You got it,” was Zeke's reply. He still sounded pale. “I'll call you if they move."
"How long ago did Rowan go into the store?” He was already scanning the empty street, planning his approach.
"Thirty-six minutes. Jesus. Je
sus God, there's Sigs here."
"Relax, Zeke. They could just be hungry.” Delgado hung up, and took out his wallet. It was time to do something just a little bit illegal.
Two minutes later, five hundred dollars were left in an envelope in a mailbox, and Delgado had stolen a motorcycle. The money would help whoever actually owned the bike—he hoped.
Chapter Seven
"I don't know,” Rowan said, holding up two packages of brownie mix and eyeing them critically. “I guess so.” Muzak drifted through the brightly lit aisles, a soupy rendition of Stairway To Heaven.
"Well, Marta—at the bridge club, you know—says he's a very nice boy. And he's asked Marta about you.” Her father rested his trembling hands on the cart. His red suspenders matched his red socks, and his sports jacket with a hole on the collar was his traditional grocery-shopping outfit. “Get the ones with nuts, sweetie. You know how I like those."
"I'll add real nuts to the mix, Dad,” she replied absently, putting a box back, taking two of the other brand and dropping them into the basket. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I'm not going on another blind date."
"It's not a blind date if you've already dated him. Are those the ones with nuts?"
"I'll add nuts, Dad. I've got a whole bag of walnuts at home. Look, the man's an ass. He spent our entire last date talking about his job.” And how big his dick is. Always thinking about teenage girls. The guy was an oily jerk. I don't care if he is Marta's nephew, I'm never going near him again. Makes my skin crawl. She shivered, pushing away the memory.
"Well, you make men a little nervous, princess. You're a very beautiful girl."
"Yeah, Dad. That's why they're beating down my door, right?” Stop it, she told herself, pretending not to see when her father snuck another box of brownie mix into the cart. Don't be mean to him. It's not his fault you're too picky, Rowan. “We need milk and tortilla chips and some bottled water, and some frozen vegetables."
"You should have made a list.” he said, a mischievous smile crinkling his face. His eyes sparkled.
"I did make a list,” Rowan replied, tapping her temple. “It's up here. Come on, slowpoke.” The conversation was so familiar she barely had to pay attention.
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