by Irene Hannon
"Not necessarily. The sort of extreme reaction you described is rare, but I've had patients who have strong reactions to objects from their past. Sometimes we can track down the reason and sometimes we can't. In my experience, if you're dealing with someone who otherwise seems like a lucid, normal person, there's almost always a logical explanation for a reaction like that if you dig deep enough. From what you've said, I suspect this woman would fall into that category."
"It only happens when she touches the doll, Nick noted.
"The tactile sensation could be tapping into a traumatic subconscious memory." Emily tilted her head and played with her spoon. "It's an intriguing situation"
Their salads arrived, and much to Nick's relief, Mark and Coop got off his case. The conversation moved on to other subjects, and the rest of the evening was pleasant and relaxing.
After lingering over dessert and coffee, they parted for the night in the parking lot. And as Nick watched the two couples leave arm in arm, their heads close together as they shared quiet, private conversations, he thought again of Rachel Sutton.
Now that Emily had set his mind at ease about the woman's sanity, he found himself wondering what it would be like to share a quiet dinner with her. To tuck her arm in his as they walked to his car afterward. To steal a kiss from those full, soft lips beneath a silver moon.
That wayward notion took him off guard. And made about as much sense as the story Rachel had told him this afternoon.
Turning his back on the two happy couples, he strode toward his car. The best thing to do was forget his brief encounter with the velvet-eyed visitor who wore a delicate gold cross around her slender neck.
But as he drove home in the darkness, he couldn't shake the feeling that had they met under less bizarre circumstances, he would have been interested in getting to know her better.
Very interested.
It had taken a ton of research to convince her boss she could come up with enough information to write a compelling story, but almost a week after her eavesdropping episode, Claudia got the green light for a piece on paranormal phenomena. With one caveat: it had to have the local angle she'd promised.
That was her next order of business. And she'd already done her homework. Earlier in the week, her computer search of the St. Louis area phone book had revealed only one listing for a Joseph Birkner-the name on the credit card at the restaurant. He and Marta lived at 7135 Willow Lane.
It had been a piece of cake to pin down where Rachel's friend worked. She'd just followed her one morning to Stafford Elementary School. After practicing her spiel for the past few days, Claudia was confident she could pull off her plan without suspicion and get the information she needed.
Stepping out of her cube in the newsroom, she headed toward the conference room-the only available office space with a door in the whole place. That was her one gripe about the paper-and journalism in general. No privacy. How was a reporter supposed to cultivate confidential sources or develop exclusives when everyone within twenty feet could hear your conversation?
She ran through her script once more, withdrew her cell phone, and keyed in the number for Stafford Elementary. At 4:30 on a Thursday, the place could be shut down for the day. But she hoped not. Now that she had the go-ahead, she was anxious to get started. Tapping her foot, she listened as the phone rang once, twice, three times. By the fourth ring, as she was beginning to resign herself to voice mail, a live person answered.
"I'm so glad I caught you before the end of the day, Claudia returned the woman's greeting, doing her best to sound frazzled. "I was trying to reach one of your teachers, but I can't read my own scribbling. I always did get bad marks in penmanship" She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "It's Rachel .." she left the sentence hanging, crossing her fingers the woman would fill in the blank.
"Sutton?"
Yes! "That could be it. Unless ... is there another Rachel on staff ?"
"No, we only have one Rachel:"
"Then she must be the one"
"Were you wanting to inquire about piano lessons, by any chance?"
Another piece of background information. Excellent. Claudia filed it away for possible future use. "That's right. For my daughter"
"My daughter is one of her students too, the chatty woman offered. "Rachel is a very good teacher. I'm sure you'll be delighted. I'm afraid we can't give staff information over the phone, but I'll be happy to ask her to call if you'll give me your name and a contact number."
"Perfect. It's Judy Denham" Claudia made up a number.
"Got it. I'll pass this on to Rachel:"
"Thank you so much. You've been very, very helpful:"
More than you'll ever know.
Smiling, Claudia ended the call.
On to step two.
Rachel shivered and slipped the key into the door of her small bungalow. The cold had returned with a vengeance sometime during the afternoon, and she regretted leaving her gloves on the kitchen counter this morning. The short walk from her detached garage to the door had already numbed her fingers.
A frigid gust whipped past, and another shudder rippled through her. The wind chill had to be in the single digits. So much for St. Louis's short-lived mid-winter thaw. And with ominous clouds turning the sky dark as night at only 4:30, she assumed more snow was on the way. Oh, well. It had been nice while it lasted.
Stepping inside, Rachel shut the door against the bitter cold and drew a slow, deep breath. It had been a long week. She'd doubled up on piano students Tuesday and Wednesday night to carve out time for parent/teacher conferences last night at one of the two schools where she taught music. After the conferences, some of her colleagues had convinced her to go out for pizza. It had been close to eleven when she'd stepped through her door.
Tonight, she wanted to relax. Needed to relax, after the oddly stressful past month. And she'd planned her Friday evening with that in mind. First, she was going to savor the full order of shrimp and broccoli linguini in a light olive oil sauce she'd picked up from her favorite Italian restaurant on the way home. That would be followed by the generous slice of chocolate torte she'd cut from the cake in the teachers' lounge today. She intended to cap the evening with a soak in a hot bubble bath, accompanied by a good book. And perhaps she'd allow herself one final indulgence-a few fanciful thoughts about a certain sandy-haired FBI agent with cobalt blue eyes.
Since her visit to the agency's office a week ago today, she hadn't thought a lot about him. Hadn't let herself think a lot about him. She was too much of a realist. Growing up in foster care had that effect, she supposed. You learned to appreciate kindness, to accept indifference, and to move on without a backward glance no matter how you were treated. It wasn't as if anyone had ever been unkind to her. But the succession of placements had left her yearning for roots. And it had given her a deep, lasting appreciation for home. Her house might be small and unpretentious, but it was hers. That meant the world to her.
And if she had no one to share it with ... that was just the way life had worked out. She didn't dwell on it. Except, once in a while, on special days that were meant to be spent with someone you loved.
Like today.
Valentine's Day.
Setting the white sack containing her dinner on a small table near the door, she shrugged off her coat-and tried to do the same with her sudden melancholy. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she'd focus on all the things she should be grateful for. Including the relaxing evening ahead.
In a dozen strides she crossed the small living room and ignited the gas flames in her fireplace. She'd always said if she ever bought a house, it had to have a fireplace. The homes she could afford in the areas where she wanted to live didn't offer such features, however, so she'd added this soon after moving in. It had been an extravagance-but one she'd never regretted. On a cold winter night, there was nothing like curling up next to the flickering logs with a cup of hot chocolate. Not a bad addition to her activity list for tonight, either. She might end
her evening that way. After the bubble bath.
The first order of business, however, was food. Breakfast had been a long time ago and she was starving. Juggling classes at two schools had its challenges, and lunch was often a casualty. On the bright side, however, skipping her noon meal meant she wouldn't have to feel guilty about tonight's pasta spree.
She snagged the bag off the table and was halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
Torn, Rachel hesitated. She hated to be rude. But she wasn't in the mood for company-or a sales pitch. On the other hand, her caller could be someone who was interested in a mural, or wanting to inquire about piano lessons ... though most piano customers phoned and the majority of those interested in a mural emailed after viewing the samples on her website. But she'd had a few potential clients show up at her door through the years.
Resigned, she deposited the bag on the table again and returned to the door, checking the peephole.
A young woman stood on the other side, her longish, dark-blonde hair pulled back at her nape with a barrette. A gold choker peeked through the neck of her black wool coat, glinting in the porch light, and a leather shoulder purse was slung over her shoulder. A newer model, sporty red car was parked at the curb behind her. Although she was a stranger to Rachel, her attire and transportation didn't suggest salesperson or survey-taker. That was a good thing. She should be able to dispense with the interruption quickly and get on with her evening.
Pasting a smile on her face, she pulled open the door. "Hi. Can I help you?"
"Rachel Sutton?"
"Yes"
"My name is Claudia Barnes. I'm with St. Louis Scene" She held out a business card. "I was hoping you might give me a few minutes:"
Responding by reflex, Rachel took the card. "I'm sorry. I don't think I'm familiar with that publication"
"Not enough people are, I'm afraid. It's only been around for two years. But the circulation is growing. Scene is a free, weekly news magazine. It's distributed at restaurants, grocery stores, and various other places of business. I'm a reporter."
The logo on the card was vaguely familiar to Rachel. "I think I've seen it. At the coffee shop I go to, maybe. It's a tabloid, isn't it?"
"Yes"
Puzzled by the visit, Rachel tipped her head and gave the woman a quizzical look. "How can I help you, Ms. Barnes?"
"I'm hoping you'll let me interview you for a story I'm working on about paranormal phenomena"
The request caught Rachel like a left hook-and left her reeling. Several seconds ticked by before she could find her voice. "Excuse me?"
The woman's poise wavered for an instant, her smile flickering the tiniest bit. Clearing her throat, she hitched her shoulder purse a bit higher. Her smile steadied. "I'm working on a feature on the paranormal. A story like that is always more interesting when it has a local angle, and I understand you had an experience recently that falls into this category. With a Raggedy Ann doll?"
Stunned, Rachel stared at her. "Where did you hear that?" The question came out strained and hoarse.
"I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources. That goes against press protocol. It's true, then? You have psychic abilities?"
"No"
"What about the doll?"
"That's the only time I .." Rachel stopped. Clamped her lips shut. But it was too late. For all intents and purposes, she'd confirmed her experience with the doll.
"It's a fascinating story, Ms. Sutton. I know our readers would be interested in it. Even if the FBI wasn't"
The woman's eyes narrowed, and Rachel suspected she was fishing now. That she didn't know what the FBI's reaction had been. But how did she know about Rachel's visit to the field office in the first place?
Only one answer came to mind. Someone at the FBI had leaked her story to the press. Perhaps not with deliberate intent, though that didn't matter at this point. It was out there.
But who could it have been? She'd told her story to no one at that office except Nick Bradley, and somehow she couldn't imagine him being that indiscreet. He could have shared the story with other agents, though, and one of them might have commented on it to someone with connections to the media. How else could this woman have gotten the information?
"You know, Ms. Sutton, whether they admit it or not, law enforcement agencies do use psychics in crime solving. I've been researching the subject, and back in the 1970s there was a woman in St. Louis who-"
"Ms. Barnes" Gripping the edge of the door, Rachel cut her off. "I don't know where you got your tip about me, but I'm not interested in your article or in participating in any way" She started to close the door.
"That's your choice, of course" The woman raised her volume slightly. "It's just that I wanted to give you a chance to tell your story in your own words rather than have me paraphrase it with a `no comment' from you:'
Rachel's hopes for a quiet, peaceful evening-make that a quiet, peaceful life-disintegrated. The reporter might be bluffing, hoping that last comment would spur her to cooperate, but if she wasn't, Rachel would face public humiliation. It had been bad enough talking to one person at the FBI. If this was splashed across the pages of a tabloid and read by tens of thousands of people, she'd never shake the loony label.
A wave of panic swept over her.
Clutching at straws, Rachel left the door half open and tried a threat of her own. "You might want to think about libel issues before you use my name without my permission:"
"Are you denying that you found a doll, sensed terror or danger when you held it, and that you shared your story with law enforcement?"
Much as she was tempted to say yes, Rachel didn't believe in lying. Instead, she remained silent and did her best to maintain a neutral expression.
"That's what I thought" The woman pulled her keys out of her purse, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. "It's not libel if it's true, if it's newsworthy, and if there's no malicious intent. If you change your mind about talking with me, you have my card:"
With that, the reporter swiveled on her three-inch heels and strode down the walk, the outline of her form blurring in the dim glow from the streetlights. As she slid into her car and started the engine, large flakes of snow began to fall, clinging to the frozen ground as if to erase any evidence of the woman's visit. Seconds later, the sporty red vehicle disappeared down the dark street.
Closing the door, Rachel stumbled to the couch in front of the fireplace and sank down. What was she supposed to do now? What could she do? St. Louis Scene might not be the PostDispatch, but a lot of people probably read it. Some of them would know her. Students. Clients. Co-workers. And once they saw her story, they'd either avoid her, pepper her with questions, or laugh behind her back.
None of those scenarios were good.
Too agitated to remain seated, Rachel rose and began to pace, her initial shock giving way to anger. Because of a careless mistake-or indiscretion-her reputation was about to be ruined. Thanks to the FBI.
When Rachel had walked out of the downtown field office a week ago, she'd never expected to initiate further contact with the Bureau. Her one dealing with the agency had been more than enough to last a lifetime.
But she couldn't let this leak go unreported. The situation needed to be addressed. Someone should be held accountable.
Rachel had just one contact at the FBI. And she had a feeling he wouldn't be happy about this turn of events, either. That he'd do his best to track down the guilty party.
Unless he was the culprit.
A possibility she didn't even want to consider.
"Big plans tonight?" Mark propped his shoulder against the edge of Nick's cube in the bull pen and stuck his hands in his pockets.
"Nope. How about you and Emily?" Nick swiveled around in his chair to face the other agent.
"A nice, quiet dinner for two by the fire. I'm picking up a four-course meal from Gourmet to Go on my way home. Add some candlelight and a little soft background music ... we'll be set for the evening."
&nbs
p; "Sounds like a plan"
"You aren't working on the house tonight, are you?"
"I might:"
"It's Valentine's Day"
"I'm aware of that."
Folding his arms across his chest, Mark gave him a specula tive look. "What gives with you, anyway? You were quite the man around town in our Academy days. At least by reputation. When did you become a hermit?"
"First of all, my reputation was greatly exaggerated. I've always led a pretty quiet life. But I'm not a hermit."
"You are when it comes to dating"
"Let's just say I'm selective"
"Or hard to please"
"Who are you to talk? You didn't exactly rush to the altar. How old were you when you married Emily two months ago?"
"Thirty-eight. Same as you. But I had a very active social life before that"
"You know, you're falling into that stereotypical newlywed trap." Nick leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.
Twin furrows dented Mark's brow. "What trap?"
"The I'm-deliriously-happy-and-l-want-all-my-friends-tobe -this -happy-too trap"
"Well, I am and I do"
"I appreciate your concern. But leave my love life to me, okay?"
"I would if you had one"
"The subject's closed, Mark." Nick swung back to his desk.
"Fine. I'll let it rest. For today." He peeked around a file cabinet into the corner of Nick's cube, where the patched Raggedy Ann smiled back at him from under the work space where it had been shoved, only its head visible above the small shopping bag. "Still have the doll, I see. I thought you were going to pitch it"
"I am"
"When?"
"Soon."
"Is that subject off limits too?"
"Go home to Emily, Mark"
"Okay, okay. I can take a hint:" At Nick's dubious look, Mark flashed him a grin. "Have a good weekend. And don't inhale too much drywall dust."