Psychic Storm: Ten Dangerously Sexy Tales of Psychic Witches, Vampires, Mediums, Empaths and Seers

by Deanna Chase

  Prentiss wolfishly grinned.

  “You want to hear her voice?” he said, digging in the front pocket of the dark slacks. He brought out the switchblade. “Do you?” he yelled into the phone as he flicked the knife open. The girl had seemed vaguely aware of him with all the screaming, but the glinting blade seemed to really catch her attention. “Tell me you want to hear her!” Prentiss screamed.

  “Yes,” yelled the father. “Yes, I want to hear her.”

  “Well here you go,” Prentiss said, as he slowly drove the tip of the knife into her bent knee.

  Her blood-curdling scream echoed off the cement walls, pinned his ears back, and almost drove him wild with its indescribably pure tone of pain. God, it was glorious. He twisted the blade and she screamed anew. He almost ran it up her thigh when he suddenly stopped.

  He stared at the phone. How long had he been on?

  He snapped it shut with a sudden squeeze and jumped back, withdrawing the blade.

  How long had the phone been on?

  Isabelle heard the sound of running feet just as she was about to touch the first item in the row for the third floor of the structure. The police sergeant’s hand went to the inside of his jacket as he turned toward the door.

  The FBI agent who’d let them in came to a skidding stop in the doorway.

  “Let’s go,” he said breathlessly. “Right now.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mac jammed his thumb on the phone’s off button and hurled it across the room into one of the low, cushioned chairs.

  “Dammit,” he growled.

  Ben's stricken face said it all.

  “What?” Anita shrieked, looking between the two of them. “Is she…is she…?”

  She choked up, both hands pressed to her chest.

  “She’s alive,” Mac said quickly. “No, Anita. Esme’s alive.”

  “What?” she breathed, staring at him, her mouth hanging open. “But if she’s alive…”

  There was silence in the room as Mac and Ben stared at each other.

  “God!” Anita yelled, looking frantically between the two of them. “Tell me! What?”

  “Esme was screaming,” Sharon said from behind him.

  Anita’s eyebrows furrowed and her mouth opened as though she were going to say something. Suddenly though, her face blanched and her knees started to buckle. Mac darted forward and caught her as Ben tried to help from behind. They managed to get her to a chair before she completely collapsed.

  “Water,” Mac said over his shoulder. “And call a doctor.”

  Anita’s eyes were half-closed and Ben patted her hand insistently.

  “Honey?” he said. “Honey, can you hear me?”

  Mac felt someone tug at his elbow. It was Sharon. With a firm grip he wouldn’t have expected, she dragged him back to the couch. There couldn’t have been a cell tower triangulation. That call had been shorter than the first.

  “Did you hear it?” she said, leaning close. He looked at her incredulously. Of course, he’d heard it. Everyone on the phone had heard that gut-wrenching scream. “The background,” she whispered. She motioned for the agent across from her to rewind and handed him her headset. “Listen,” she said. He quickly put them on, stretching them to fit his larger head. She cued the other agent.

  ‘That was a stupid thing to do,” the killer said. And just then, in the background, there was a sound. Dim but long. Muffled but low in tone. It happened again just as the killer repeated the word ‘stupid.’

  “Top priority in DC,” Mac said. “I want it isolated yesterday.”

  Though Isabelle had stolen a few looks at Mac as she passed through the living room and crossed to the stairs, he hadn’t seen her. The room was buzzing about the way the killer had called, absolutely enraged that ‘the psychic’ had left. And then, he’d apparently punished Esme and made her scream. No one would even speculate on what he’d done. Mac had been deep in conference with Sharon and Ben, the three of them bent over Sharon’s computer, their heads almost touching.

  Anita had been resting upstairs and a doctor had been called to give her a sedative. True to form though, Anita had refused it. By the time Isabelle arrived, an exhausted Anita was slumping at the edge of her bed.

  Isabelle immediately sat next to her and took her hand.

  “Anita,” she said quietly, but Anita didn’t acknowledge her, her stare fixed on the floor.

  “You need to rest,” Isabelle tried again, rubbing her hand. “You have to get some sleep.”

  “No,” Anita said, her eyes dull and voice monotone. “If that were someone you loved out there, could you sleep?”

  Tired and drained, Anita’s face was also haunted. The phone call had obviously been horrific and now they were waiting for another, possibly to hear Esme scream again.

  “I read some of the objects from the parking structure at the campus,” Isabelle said into the silence. Anita blinked a few times and stopped staring at the carpet. “Mostly school stuff,” she said, trying to keep her tone casual.

  “Did you see anything?” Anita asked, looking at her now.

  “Everything,” Isabelle said, grimacing. “I saw too much.” Anita’s puzzled look made her go on. “Lots of people, places, situations, emotions, and physical feelings. But nothing about Esme. Nothing about the man in the dark suit. I’ve only seen either of them once, from the boy with the skateboard.”

  “Oh,” Anita said, sounding disappointed.

  “But I’m not done,” Isabelle said quickly. “I’ve got another six levels of the parking structure and…I think it’s time to read some of Esme’s things here.”

  “I thought you said that her dorm room would be the best.”

  “It ought to be the best,” Isabelle agreed. “And I tried there. But I’m always looking into the past. The only thing that I can hope to see is someone or something that crops up over and over again, someone in common. It’s a long shot but, right now, it’s all I’ve got. I’m stuck here, by the phone.”

  Anita didn’t move, but her eyes flicked to the telephone on the nightstand.

  “Look,” said Isabelle, laying her gloved hand over Anita’s. “Just tell me where her room is. There’s no need for you to be there.”

  “No,” said Anita quickly. “No, I can do this. I’d rather be busy than waiting for that damn thing to ring.”

  Isabelle helped her up from the bed and then down the corridor and into the room that Isabelle would have known was Esme’s even without Anita. There were track and field trophies everywhere. Anita sat heavily on the bed and Isabelle went immediately to the closet. As she’d done in the dorm, she went to the shoes. Though it’d be impossible to know which of her running clothes were her favorites or worn most often, the shoes were a different story. They were lined up at the bottom of the closet, heels out. Isabelle knelt in front of them. As she examined the heels of the three pairs of high-tech shoes, one pair was more worn than the others. The left back corner was nearly worn away.

  The favorites? The oldest?

  It was as good a place to start as any.

  Isabelle removed her right glove and picked up the worn shoe.

  Images of the street below flashed by, then the campus. Her legs were burning. She could see the seconds on her fancy wristwatch ticking by. There was the intramural field and the parking structure. She flew past, trying to beat her best speed. Isabelle was breathing hard now, but faces were starting to appear. Esme’s roommate and, in a few different spots, a young blond boy with a beautiful smile. There was a priest. Students in her study group. She was thirsty. She needed a sports drink. There was the blond boy again.

  Isabelle dropped the shoe and steadied herself with a hand on the floor. Her head spun with the long read, the images no more than a mismatched jumble. The room around her was gray but, after a few moments, her eyesight began to return and the beige carpet came into focus. The blond boy was precious, someone that Esme apparently fancied. Yes, he’d been part of the study group. The imag
es began to sort themselves, moving backward through time, slotting into the places that she was familiar with. And, at the parking structure, the priest appeared.

  Isabelle froze.

  At the parking structure, the girl with the yellow highlighter had seen a priest.

  “Are you Catholic?” Isabelle whispered.

  “No,” Anita said. “Why do you ask?”

  Mac had seen Isabelle arrive but he’d been too caught up in the new tape recording. As he paced at the bottom of the stairs, though, he couldn’t help but think of going up to see her. They couldn’t just leave things the way they were. But as he looked up the stairs, his mind relentlessly went over the bizarre conversation with the killer.

  The man claimed God spoke to him and yet his fowl-mouthed anger didn’t quite jive with that. As usual in this case, Mac found himself with mismatched data. It was as though they were dealing with multiple personalities, but true multiple-personality disorder was very rare. A multiple-personality who was also a serial killer, even more so. And why had Isabelle’s leaving the case bothered him so much? Hadn’t he said she was the spawn of Satan? Wouldn’t her removal have fit right in with his belief?

  “Here it is, Mac,” Sharon said.

  He spun toward her and saw her wave him over. The whole room seemed to follow him as he dashed to the couch, Ben right behind him. Conversations immediately hushed. The room was deathly silent as Mac watched the status bar of the download finish on the laptop.

  Sharon immediately opened the compressed file and hit the play button.

  The killer’s voice had been isolated and thrown into the background.

  ‘That was a stupid thing to do.’

  Then they heard it. Long and low, deep and resonant–the tolling of a bell.

  Then, as he said ‘stupid’ again, it struck once more.

  Mac glanced at his watch. Nearly three o’clock. The killer had called at two.

  “Get me a map of the campus,” Mac barked at the sergeant. “And a five mile radius spreading out from there. I want to know every church in that area but particularly near the campus.”

  It’d been staring them in the face. The Bible quotes. The God talk. They were looking for a church.

  “There have got to be about a dozen churches right there,” the sergeant said, heading out the front door.

  “It’s the Catholic one,” said someone from the stairs. Mac turned to see Isabelle with one glove off. “He’s a priest.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sirens blaring, about a dozen FBI vehicles and another dozen police cars converged on St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church. Just west of the campus, it was on Sunset Boulevard, bordering the wealthy homes of Brentwood.

  Though it’d been against Mac’s wishes, Isabelle had come with them. Not that he didn’t want her close by, but he didn’t want her in harm’s way. But he could hardly say no. Though he’d never have thought to check the Catholic church first, the priest, in a dark suit, wearing a collar that people trusted made too much sense. Isabelle had been part of bringing the case to this point–a big part. No matter what they were about to see, she had earned the right to be there. As the sergeant brought the SUV to a screeching halt, Mac jumped out of the passenger door, walkie-talkie in hand.

  “All right,” Mac said into the radio. “LAPD squads, I want every street here sealed off. No one in or out, by any means. Use those helicopters of yours to watch the backyards. We’re looking for”–he eyed Isabelle in her bulletproof vest as she exited her door–“a priest. Average build. Dark hair. Mustache. Wearing a traditional white collar.”

  The police vehicles and officers began to scatter, shouting at one another and pointing down the angled and treelined streets that led to this location.

  “Agents,” Mac said to the gathering men and women around him. “We’re going to clear each room of the sanctuary first, one by one, and then the outlying buildings. Team One,” he said pointing at them. “You take the bell tower.” They all looked up to the hexagonal bell tower, the final clue, topped with a single, simple cross. “Team Two,” he said. “You’ll start at ground level, clear the entire cathedral.” A few of the people there nodded. “Team Three, you’re with me. We’re heading to the basement.”

  From the beginning, Mac had known the room wouldn’t have windows. The acoustics that the lab had pulled out from the killer’s yelling and Esme’s scream all pointed to a small cement room. Plus, the dimness of the church bell meant it was as far away as they could get.

  “Okay, people,” Mac said, drawing his weapon. “This man is very likely armed and is to be considered dangerous. Hostage Rescue Team,” he said, nodding to the five-man team in olive-drab, military gear, assault rifles ready. “You take the lead and we’ll follow.” There were nods all around. “Let’s go!”

  As the group of FBI agents in front of Isabelle surged down the stairs, Sergeant Dixon grasped her shoulder from behind.

  “We’re going to hang back,” he said. “Mac’s orders.”

  Frankly, that was fine with her. Everything had happened so quickly. Mac had immediately gone into agent mode when all the facts had clicked. They’d scrambled as though a fire were raging, and Isabelle realized that adrenalin was running high. When they’d told her to wear a bullet-proof vest, it’d finally dawned on her what was happening.

  Shouts came from beyond the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  The sergeant’s walkie-talkie blared.

  “We’ve got her,” came Mac’s booming voice. “All teams, we’ve got Esme Olivos, and she’s alive.”

  “Oh thank god,” Isabelle breathed, starting down the stairs.

  “No perpetrator,” Mac said. “I repeat. We are still looking for the perp. Clear every room. And we need a medical team down here ASAP.”

  The sergeant held her back again.

  “I don’t know if you really want to go down there,” he said.

  Isabelle turned on the stairs to look up at him.

  “I can already tell you I don’t want to go down there,” she said. “But I have to.”

  She gazed down at the open door and listened to the frantic voices and shouted orders.

  There was no way she could not see this through.

  Slowly, she crept down the remaining carpeted steps and entered the room.

  It was enormous, like a cavern. The entire Hostage Rescue Team was there, almost looking casual. Beyond them, Isabelle realized there was another door, just next to a rolling, metal, clothes rack full of bright, blue, choir robes.

  She quickly crossed the room, running as fast as she could in heels. Once inside the next room, she realized it was no bigger than a storage closet. She recognized Mac’s back immediately, crouched low over someone laying on the ground. Sharon knelt to his right. Though Isabelle couldn’t see her, she knew that had to be Esme laying there. Esme, the runner. Esme, who fancied the young blond man. Esme…

  There seemed to be blood everywhere, and Sharon was pressing her hand down over Esme’s knee. Isabelle immediately covered her nose and mouth. Not just at the awful sight but also the wretched smell of blood mixed with human waste. Esme was barely conscious, her eyes trying to roll back in her head. Her lips were completely parched, the lower one cracked and bleeding, and she breathed shallowly through her open mouth.

  One of the other agents was taking her pulse and Mac was trying to talk to her.

  “Esme,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

  There was no response. Isabelle knelt next to Mac, who glanced at her but immediately returned his attention back to Esme.

  “How is she?” Isabelle asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “I think she’s going to be fine,” Mac said, as Sharon continued to press on the wound that Isabelle was glad she couldn’t see. “She’s in shock, dehydrated, but she hasn’t lost a lot of blood.”

  “Does anybody have smelling salts?” asked Sharon.

  Agents checked their pockets. Someone from outside the storage room came i
n and handed Mac a packet. He quickly tore it open and snapped the capsule under Esme’s nose. Though her head moved sideways, her eyes closed, but her mouth didn’t.

  “No go,” Mac said. “We’re going to have to wait.” He turned to the agent in the doorway. “Get me an ETA on that medical.”

  “What’s the matter?” Isabelle said quietly.

  “The perpetrator might be nearby, and we still don’t have a good description of him.”

  Esme was the only one who’d gotten a good look at him. Isabelle gazed down at her. Now she saw the lacerated wrists and ankles. The bruise on the side of her face and the swollen lip.

  Slowly, she unbuttoned one glove.

  “What are you doing?” Mac said.

  “The kidnapper is still out there, right?”

  “Isabelle,” he said, his voice tense. “Don’t do it.”

  “He might be walking down the sidewalk right now,” she said, tugging each of the fingers loose. “Or riding on the bus.” She pulled the glove free. “Or eating at a restaurant.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Mac said, locking gazes with her.

  “It wouldn’t help you to catch him if you knew what he looked like?” she asked. Mac grimaced. “To make sure he doesn’t do this to someone else?”

  “Of course it would but–”

  Isabelle grasped Esme’s limp arm.

  A searing pain lanced through her knee and she groaned. The man’s red face floated in front of her.

  “Brown eyes,” she hissed. “Mustache. Brown hair. Parted on the left, straight. His mouth and chin are small. A heart shaped face. Heavy eyebrows. Narrow eyes. Straight nose. Glasses without rims.” Suddenly, her mouth felt like cotton and her tongue seemed swollen. “Asked me for directions. Had a map and looked lost.” Her temples suddenly ached. “His car is a gray Corolla. Panicked about the phone.” Isabelle held her head. It felt as though the pain would split it. “Purify me,” she whined.