by Regan Black
My sister will find me. She'll find me and tell Mom and Dad. The words formed with such clear conviction, Petra admired the trapped child.
The pedophile was most likely on Kincaid's wanted list. That was Petra's only explanation for this connection. The crime scene must be close by to have caught her up like this. She felt a moment's worry. If something so evil had been happening nearby, she should've sensed it long before now.
The man approached and Petra worked to separate herself from the girl's overwhelming terror. If she could at least get a description of the pedophile for Kincaid she might save someone at last.
Struggling with the girl's torment and her own self-doubt, Petra tried to imprint the details on her memory.
The man himself was remarkable only that he was out-of-date in a cotton shirt with pearl snap-buttons and tan knit trousers. Looking past him, she sought any sign of the typical visual-recording equipment and found none. Instead she caught a glimpse of an antique console television playing a commercial in black and white.
She'd seen similar broadcasts during a documentary and for a moment the girl's trauma was forgotten in the midst of the experience. Recognizing the cheerful jingle, Petra snapped out of it.
Impossible. Impossible! So says the woman who flies around the cosmos without her body. The sudden, violent invasion of the grown man against the child's small body caused pain to spear through her and put her analysis on hold.
Sadly, she felt the life ebbing from the girl, and the connection severed. Damn. She wouldn't save this one either. Grieving, Petra caught the faint sounds of Mozart once more and followed the music back, hoping to land where she was supposed to this time.
She was nearly to full consciousness when a wave of temper and worry sloshed over her. Not what she needed in her exhausted state.
"Hi, Mom."
"First of all you know better than to go off alone. Second, why must you use that awful piece for your return?"
Petra sighed. "It soothes me." Though after this experience she might find a replacement. "Hand me that notepad, please?" She shifted to sit up, her battered senses forcing her to move slowly, but she wanted to sketch that dream or whatever it was before the images faded.
"It'll soothe you right into an early grave," Pamela sniped, handing her the notepad.
Petra's heart lurched and she ached for the girl and the unfortunate loss she'd just experienced. Drawing as fast as her hand could move, she made notations about the smells, clothing, colors, and lack thereof. When she finished she felt better equipped to address her mother's worry.
"Mom, really. It's just music." Petra was in no mood for further dramatics. "I'm fine. I didn't plan this, but I was anchored." It wasn't really a lie. Nate had been there, if only momentarily. Nate! She stopped sketching to tell her mother what she'd seen. "I think Nate's been juiced or drugged or–"
Pamela shushed her. "I know just what you're doing. It's sweet that you always see the best in everyone, honey. But in this case, you're wrong. He's not worth your worry anymore." Pamela knelt next to the bed and caught Petra's hands in a vise-worthy grip. "Promise me you'll stop this nonsense."
Petra considered reciting the rest of the lecture herself, but her mother charged on, so she resumed her sketch. She barely kept herself from rolling her eyes and mouthing along in disrespect. Lord, she hadn't felt this way since she was nine.
Nine?
No! She couldn't deny the familiar jingle or the sense of a protective big sister out there somewhere. Petra choked on the sharp edge of realization. She'd just watched herself die. Well, not this self, but a previous self. It hadn't been a dream, not a random connection. It wasn't even symbolic. The Requiem had marked her descent into an early grave. She felt it, knew it in her soul she'd just seen the worst end of an earlier life.
"We're family," she whispered to herself, thinking about her sister, but her mother heard.
"Not anymore, love. Not after this. Nathan was a vibrant, strong telepath. Too strong to be manipulated by this bizarre drug theory of yours. Whatever happened, he's in prison accepting responsibility for his actions. It's time you accepted the reality of the situation."
"Mom."
Pamela sighed and released Petra's hands. "Fine. I'll humor your father and you and blame the work. But I'll remind you that was work he chose on his own."
"He's innocent."
"Innocence is a fairy tale. What will it take to convince you, Petra? Nathan would never want you poking around his brain like this. Your father and I demand you respect the spirit of the man he was."
"You mean the man he is."
"Watch your tone." Pamela lowered a disapproving brow. "We're all terribly upset. The fact remains it's likely his gift pushed him over the edge. You are not to go flying off alone. I couldn't bear it if you got lost or fell victim to whatever claimed him."
"That's not what happened," Petra insisted. "If you'd listen–"
"No. I can't listen to any more contrived theories. Not even those contrived to soothe." Pamela shook her head, her swinging hair a soft counterbalance to the hard set of her jaw. "I can't. More, I won't. Do not go off alone again, Petra. Do not go looking into your brother for a good that's no longer there."
Pamela's eyes misted, but Petra knew no tears would fall. Her mother never really cried. "Mom, please."
"I couldn't bear to lose you, honey. Please, please! Do as I say." Pamela shivered delicately, then moved to pour a tall glass of water, insisting Petra drink it all. "All right. Now that we're settled," she said, taking the empty glass, "tell me how many more years I have to put up with your father."
Petra forced a smile, but the old joke wasn't funny today. "Sorry, Mom. Prophecy was Nate's thing. I guess you'll just have to wait it out. Where is Dad?"
"Right here, Pet," he said from the doorway. "How're you feeling?"
Three floors up, Gideon watched Petra with her parents. He refused to listen in real time, though his systems recorded every word for later analysis. Bodies spoke louder than words and he'd bet good money that classical crap was still playing.
He knew it was stupid to be insulted, but the woman hadn't even thanked him for saving her life. He'd been the one to restore order when the witnesses lost it. He'd intimidated the thug hovering behind her on the street and had the bone-deep ache in his shoulder to prove it. Gideon rubbed said shoulder. As if that wasn't enough, he'd sunk so low he was whining.
Within a few minutes he'd found the birth certificates for both Nathan and Petra and deciphered the medical codes that indicated in-vitro pregnancies. Finding Pamela's obstetrical chart, he learned her eggs had been fertilized at the same time but the embryos implanted not only at different development stages, but also in different years.
Gideon was still trying to sort out the how and why behind that concept when his pager hummed under his skin.
"Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute," he grumbled in the direction of his biceps.
Sixty seconds later, his laptop announced an incoming message.
So he did have a receiver in his arm. Life just got better and better. He'd like a few minutes alone with the techno-dweeb who'd managed that.
With a final roll of his shoulder, he slumped into the chair. Opening his email he read the order to file an immediate report about the incident at the docks and Petra's current whereabouts.
Gideon considered how best to answer. He clicked over for the live feed of Petra's suite.
"Subject is in her room," he typed.
Any audio?
She girly-chats with nasty-ass boys, gets throttled for her effort, and roams the city without thought to her safety. She was in way over her head. Maybe he should speak to Kincaid and get her off this case. Trouble was, either way she'd still be his case.
The computer beeped. Any audio?
Gideon kept his comments in his head. Surely they didn't have his brainwaves tapped. Yet.
"Hold for audio," he typed.
He'd planted the audio receivers, regre
tting the move, considering her lousy taste for tunes. Turning it up now, he heard the classical music droning on. With a few keystrokes he recorded and sent the audio file up the line.
They confirmed receipt and signed off with orders to maintain his position and assignment.
Again, Gideon kept silent rather than add to the long list of 'questionable attitude concern' notes in his personnel file.
With a last disgusted glance at his assignment still under the parental umbrella, Gideon moved away from the monitor for another round of rehab exercises.
Mozart's Requiem waned into a pleasant silence and Petra stood, giving her knees a minute to catch up with the rest of her. Her brain swirled in the midst of a fog as she tried to sort recent events into manageable parts.
She risked a glance at her father. He looked just as polished and warm as ever. How naïve to think he'd suddenly develop a stamp on his forehead claiming him a father of three. Of course, a sister could've resulted from an early indiscretion by her mother, but somehow that didn't fit Petra's image of the ever-proper Pamela.
The vivid dream-memory and the pervading sensation that Petra was the lost one kept her from demanding answers to myriad questions. She could wait on Kelly's research. Stroking the soreness out of her neck, her hand drifted to her hip–to soothe an ache that wasn't her own. This tenderness had been drawn from her sister during flight. Petra could only hope she'd helped, because she had no recollection of the interaction.
She smiled, shaking off the idea that her mother was right about her limitations, her weaker gifts, and the inherent risks in that combination.
"I thought you two were headed to Florida this spring."
"Not if you're working here," Pamela said. "We need to be together right now."
Petra cocked her head. "To show a unified front for Nathan?"
"For you," Randall corrected, slipping an arm around Petra's shoulders. "You don't want to jeopardize your professional reputation."
"And flying off alone won't help," Pamela interjected.
Petra held up a staying hand, and stepped away from her father's embrace, immediately feeling the loss of his comforting touch. "We've been down that road and I appreciate your concern. I'm here on an unrelated case. I didn't even know anything about Nathan until a few hours ago. I wish more than anything I could clear his name."
Her mother's face paled and her lips thinned.
"Look at that! Our girl's grown a spine," her father declared. His eyes sparkled with pride, but then they'd always enjoyed a lighter rapport than she shared with her mother.
She wondered if he shared the same tender connection with any other daughters. She sighed. "Thank you for helping me back, Mom." She kissed her cheek and guided her parents toward the main door. "I've been ordered away from Nathan's case and I'll be careful not to jeopardize my career or his future." She was determined her brother would have a future.
The sudden pounding of a fist to her hotel room door silenced her mother's protests. Petra consulted the security viewer to find Kincaid on the other side, ready to pound again.
She opened the door, hiding behind it so his fist didn't collide with her face.
"Where have you been?" he asked, pushing inside and slamming the door behind him.
"Right here," she replied, sending out a calming vibe.
"Don't try to settle me. You look tired. You've been flying around without a grounding person," he accused.
"We've already scolded her, Agent Kincaid," Pamela said.
"Having succeeded, now they're off to rest up. Right, Dad?"
Her father's soft chuckle eased the tension. He shook Kincaid's hand. "It's good to see the real Kincaid at last. If you need anything, either of you," he looked at Kincaid and then at Petra, "don't hesitate to call."
Her parents left Petra alone with Kincaid and their case. For a woman who normally enjoyed people, she decided she needed to find a few more of the lower-maintenance variety.
"So they know you went flying off alone," Kincaid began.
She shrugged. "It was CRIA who told me to leave Kelly home." Kincaid advanced, backing her up until her legs bumped into the couch. She wouldn't let him push her down. "What's wrong with you?"
"Don't make this about me." He took a deep breath and moved away. "I've been trying to reach you for hours."
She sat now, by choice. "You left me hanging, remember? I'm sorry to concern you. What's happened?"
"Our Cincinnati suspect had nothing to do with the crap at the train, did he?"
"No. You knew that before I went in. Talk to me."
He sighed. "I just got a redline notice that a local cop's filed a protest about the official cause of his partner's death. He's claiming the whole thing's some sort of sabotage. But why? The partner, Ferguson, was a Chicago native and as low profile as they come. It doesn't make sense."
"What sort of case were they working when he died?"
"That's the thing. They were a standard evidence crew, trained to respond to emergency calls, begin the initial collection, and offer support to the arresting officers. Ferguson's got no priors and no known enemies on the street."
"You think our Cincinnati killer and the local saboteur are one and the same?"
"I think it's possible," he hedged. "Though I don't see what makes Ferguson a target."
"Could the surviving officer have been the target?"
"That'd be Officer Loomis." Kincaid scrubbed at the stubble shading his chin. "Again, it's possible. I won't know until we review the crime scene."
"Which is the van?"
Kincaid nodded.
"Are you waiting for me to volunteer or am I waiting for your orders?"
"I worry about overworking you, Petra." Kincaid laughed bitterly. "I'd be better off worrying about you overworking yourself."
She refused to dignify that with a comment. "What call were they responding to the night Ferguson died?"
"A break-in signal at the Field."
"Which field?"
"The Field Museum of Natural History."
She nodded, understanding. "So what makes that a target?"
"Got me. I've never been there."
Standing, she grabbed her sweater and walked to the door. "Then I guess it's past time to enrich your education."
"The van's in the police wreckage lot."
Leave it to Kincaid to be reasonable when she felt a persistent urge to get to that museum. Now. Her penchant for honesty was taking a beating by not shooting straight with Kincaid. Her urges might tie in with their case, but Petra preferred to think, or hope, it could be personal.
Saboteur or not, she wanted to find this sister she kept sensing. "Let's start with walking the original scene."
The pain woke Gideon as the meds wore off. Admitting the sleep helped, he rose and crossed to his monitoring set up to check in on the empath and cursed–mentally–to find her suite empty.
Where the hell would she be–he looked outside and squinted at the clock to confirm–at not quite dawn?
If they found out he'd lost her twice in not quite as many days he'd never get a decent assignment when his shoulder healed. He'd be damned if he'd be chained to this sort of crap, or whatever was less exciting than babysitting, for the rest of his working days.
Rewinding the recorded feed didn't ease Gideon's concern for his future career. He tweaked the audio settings, but realized nothing would improve the static sound quality that began the moment Kincaid stepped into Petra's suite.
So the Special Agent carried signal jammers with him when he dropped in on his empath. Interesting.
Rewinding again, this time he muted even the static to better read the body language. Years of fieldwork and covert observation, had honed his instincts and he could tell the woman was up to something more than her boss was requesting. He'd seen her in action on several crime scenes–two up close–and she'd never shown this hum of anticipation in her shoulders and mouth. Hell, she'd practically dragged Kincaid out the door.
He bent over and yanked his duffel bag from under the table, swearing when his shoulder complained mightily. Lord, he needed a real assignment. One that pushed him hard enough mentally to block the physical pain.
His superiors would say Petra Neiman was the first step in both his physical and career recovery. He'd say otherwise–if he had any damn say at all.
Dropping the useless self-pity, he pulled out an innocuous-looking camera no bigger than his palm. He turned it on and held his index finger over the sensor in the lens until the back slid open.
Pointing the lens around the room, he made sure all was functional, then linked the device to his laptop. The tracking software came up on the bigger screen–useless since he'd been unable to get a tag on her. What he wanted was the code breaker he kept stored in the camera's memory.
He brought up CRIA's home page and addressed a bogus email to Special Agent Kincaid. Gideon smiled when seconds after he pressed 'send' the agent's inbox came streaming onto his screen.
Skimming for keywords relating to Chicago, Gideon found more references than he had time to track down. He saved it all but studied the most recent five messages in depth.
Knowing Kincaid, the evidence officer's death had to be the issue. Why that got Petra keyed up was a better question.
He heard the soft whir of a housekeeping cart as it moved down the hall to prep for a new day. Hacking the hotel's information system, he changed his room status to 'cleaned' and ignored the overflowing trashcan at his feet and the pizza boxes in the corner.
Quickly Gideon shut down his systems and stowed the more sensitive gear in case someone did manage to get in.
He had a quack to catch.
Petra stood in front of the museum steps frustrated with Kincaid, this case, and life in general. Her sister, whoever she was, had been here, had been in trouble somewhere on the other side of those massive doors, and now she was simply gone.
Beside her Kincaid stood still, but she knew his eyes were taking in every detail of both the accident scene and herself.