Trace's Psychic

by Jory Strong

  “Your friend talked about you, not by name, he was too cagey for that, but he hinted that he’d invited someone over who had amazing talent. Of course, I already knew who you were. I was watching the night the Morrisons went to see him. He didn’t waste any time taking the boy’s glove to your little shop…what’s the name of it? Ah yes, Inner Magick.” The man chuckled then went silent.

  Into the silence came the sound of old springs squeaking. Aislinn’s seat shifted and she felt movement in front of her. Her attention wavered from the man as she took in what her other senses were telling her.

  The air was warm, stuffy, smelling of cologne and oil and vinyl. In a flash of memory, she pictured the van pulling in front of her as she walked, the muscled arm extending with its innocent-looking towel. Was she still in the van? She strained for sounds that might help her identify her location. There was nothing.

  A latch cocked, then something heavy and metal slid as though on runners. Stale, garage-flavored air rushed in and Aislinn knew that she was correct, she was still in the van.

  “I’m afraid I must leave you now,” the man said. “Time to do my part and report this latest development. Then I’ve got to prepare for the final act, at least in this city.” The van lurched as he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a firm slam of metal on metal.

  Aislinn strained to hear his footsteps, to hear anything, but the van’s interior must have been padded with something that both contained and blocked sound. She fought the rising panic and forced her body to remain still, to conserve strength while she tried to find a way to escape.

  Her heart threatened to deafen her with its pounding in her ears. Visions of Patrick’s murder scene tried to press down on her, along with an imagined scene of Madame Ava and her tarot cards.

  For a second Aislinn gave into the terror and struggled against her bindings. But the tape made it impossible to breathe through her mouth, to get air into her lungs fast enough. Shortness of breath finally stilled her.

  When the burning in her lungs subsided and her heartbeat steadied, the skills that had helped her endure the taunts and isolation of Elven-space now helped her to distance herself from what was happening so that she could control the panic.

  She wouldn’t passively accept death. But there was solace in knowing that even if the killer succeeded, Trace would be spared the horror of seeing whatever tableau her murderer laid out. The Elders would never risk discovery by allowing a half-elf’s body to remain among humans.

  Aislinn began testing her bindings. There was enough give in them that she had some movement, but not enough for her to wriggle free.

  She searched desperately for an edge to rub her bound wrists and ankles against, but the chair she’d been tethered to felt as though it had been bolted to the floor. It didn’t budge regardless of her attempts to shift it closer to something that she might be able to use.

  Tears fought to escape the duct tape.

  The terror of dying threatened to overwhelm her.

  Aislinn’s heart and mind and soul screamed out to Trace.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trace came to a halt next to the nightstand on Aislinn’s side of the bed. Color from a crystal-embedded ring washed over the designs she’d been working on.

  He picked up the ring, examining the delicate workmanship and strangely compelling beauty before tracing a finger over the elaborate script on her drawings. She was a mystery that he’d need a lifetime to learn.

  His heart lurched at the thought that he might not get a lifetime with her. Christ, he should have told her to stay put.

  She wouldn’t have. Not anymore than he would have if he thought he could do something to find the missing boy.

  Images of Dylan and Miguel in the flame-engulfed house flashed through Trace’s mind. Without Aislinn, the kid would have been dead.

  Trace rubbed his thumb over the small inset stones. They were the same color as her eyes.

  If it were anyone but her, she’d be a suspect and not a victim. There were too many coincidences. Too many places where Aislinn intersected with the case.

  But he’d stake his career on her being innocent.

  He’d stake his heart on it.

  The stones in the ring felt warm against his palm. Trace closed his hand into a fist and would have sworn that heat radiated from it, that by touching the stones he could feel Aislinn’s presence.

  Fuck. Now he was starting to buy into the psychic bullshit.

  He set the ring down and turned. But the loss of contact with it left him feeling uneasy. Goddamn! He grabbed the ring and pressed it onto a finger then stalked to the kitchen before he had to examine what he’d done more closely.

  Sophie and Storm were pulling plates and silverware out of the cabinets. Miguel was digging around for drinks. Dylan had defied doctor’s orders and checked himself out of the hospital. He’d staked out one end of the kitchen table and was rubbing his forehead while Conner unloaded a bag of Chinese takeout, the smell filling the kitchen and making Trace’s stomach growl. They were all running on empty.

  “Everything quiet at Aislinn’s place?” Trace asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it said out loud.

  “Yeah,” Miguel answered as he set an armful of sodas down. “I checked a minute ago. The Captain has three plainclothes on it. He’s sending patrol cars by every hour and a half so whoever’s got her might think he can outsmart us.”

  Trace nodded but didn’t voice what they all were thinking. It was a long shot now that the killer had started to deviate from his script.

  They sat down at the table and filled their plates. No one said anything until they’d eaten and the table was cleared of dishes only to be cluttered up again with folders and papers.

  Trace shot a look at Sophie. The look she shot back said she wasn’t leaving. He shrugged it off. They might as well let her stay—she was already in deep.

  “Okay, anybody got anything new?” Miguel said into the silence. “The only thing I’ve pursued solo was a visit to Madame Fontaine.” His gut twisted and he glanced at Trace. “No new leads there.”

  Dylan rubbed his head, fighting the effects of the concussion. Conner spoke up. “Trace and I tracked down Winky, aka Maurice Houser. His fingerprints were at the house where the Morrison kid was being held. Unfortunately, Winky is now conveniently dead.”

  Conner let the others process the information for a minute. “I talked to the Kirby boy and his mother. Not super helpful about the psychic, but the boy said he got a look at the guy who carried him into the house and put him in the space under the floor. There was a woman with him and they argued over money, then the woman went off to see Winky. The man freaked when she came back and said Winky had overdosed. The kid said it was the guy who set fire to the house.”

  “Shit,” Trace said, getting up to pace around the kitchen. “Hired help. Dead end.”

  Conner shrugged. “Seems that way. The only other thing I have is the reporter. The Morrisons got the idea to visit Dean from her. She got the name from a reporter at the Times. I checked him out. He did an article on psychics about a year ago. That’s when he interviewed Dean. Nothing suspicious there. Madame Ava wasn’t mentioned.”

  “Fuck.” Trace stopped in front of the window and looked out. He felt like he was getting ready to go through his skin.

  Sophie said, “Was the reporter looking for a story? Is that why she told the Morrisons about Patrick?”

  Dylan pulled his hands away from his temple and said, “She got one hell of a story if that was her motivation.”

  For a heartbeat there was silence. Miguel said, “Okay, here’s a theory. You guys were convinced that the Morrison kidnapping stunk like a publicity stunt from the start. Maybe you were right, only the parents and the kid weren’t in on it. The kid just happened to be convenient. What if this is really about dragging the department through the mud? We look bad because the psychics show us up, then the psychics get killed and people start whispering about p
olice conspiracies.” He turned to Conner, “Didn’t you say there was a woman in the house where the Kirby kid was? Maybe it was the reporter.”

  Irritation flashed through Conner, a foreign protectiveness. “Khemirra isn’t involved.”

  Eyebrows shot up around the table. Even Trace turned away from the window in order to look at Conner.

  Through gritted teeth, Conner said, “She met up with some reporters and they started kicking around ideas on how to help get the kid back.” He took a second to check his notes. “That asshole from Channel 6 mentioned that his mother used to go to psychics. That’s what got the ball rolling.”

  Storm spoke up for the first time. “I assume you’re talking about David Colvin. He was hanging out over at Aislinn’s place when I was checking things out. He’s got to have a source in the department. It seems like he’s always one step ahead of the other reporters.”

  The phone rang before anyone could say anything. Trace answered, listened intently, then dropped the receiver back in its cradle. “They’ve found a van a couple of blocks away from Inner Magick. The crime scene guys are already there. They’ve got traces of chloroform and a new baseball glove they think probably belonged to the Morrison kid. They’ve also got Aislinn’s driver’s license.”

  * * * * *

  “Sorry for the cramped quarters,” the man told Aislinn. “I hurried, but it was a little trickier than I expected. No matter though. The police have now found the van. I hated to part with it, but I needed something to keep them busy. And it does add an interesting little twist to the story. They’ll find plenty of trace evidence, but no reason to connect it with anyone but the illustrious Winky, who is now dead.”

  He pulled Aislinn to a sitting position. “I’m afraid that I can’t take you out of the trunk until we get to our destination. Just too risky. Don’t fret though, we’re not going far. If the air didn’t run out while I was taking care of my last little errand, then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Aislinn shivered when she felt his finger trace the butterfly earring. Where Trace’s touch had been erotic, this touch filled her with dread.

  “One of these will make a nice souvenir. I always take a little something to remind me that justice has been served.” He twisted the earring and jerked, sending streaks of pain and blood down Aislinn’s sensitive ear. She shivered again, feeling vulnerable, violated.

  Once again the man ran his fingertip along her ear, only this time the flesh of his finger touched her skin. Repulsed, Aislinn tried to move away from the touch, but his hand followed her.

  “Well, this is interesting,” the man murmured. “I’ll have to find someone in the morgue who can leak this out to the press. It’ll make a titillating little sidebar.” He traced the trail of blood down to where it hit the neckline of Aislinn’s dress. She stilled as his finger worked under the edge of her clothing. Her heart thundered in alarm.

  “No time for that,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Maybe next time. Then again, that adds a layer of risk. It’s an interesting thought though. Screw the psychics—literally.” He chuckled. “Something of a poetic payback for all those times that psychics made my life a living hell. I’ll have to keep it in mind. But not today. I’m afraid that my little diversion will only keep the police busy for so long. I would have preferred to set things up at Inner Magick, where you’d be in your natural setting. But your psychic friend has runes that will work as a prop, and since you sent her on her way after finding the boy, it’s a compromise that I can live with.” His hands slid along Aislinn’s shoulders and forced her downward. A second later the trunk closed, drowning Aislinn in the smell of tire and carpet. She screamed silently for Trace, pleading with him to go to Madame Fontaine’s house.

  * * * * *

  The ring on Trace’s finger burned, drawing his attention away from the van. The edginess that he’d felt standing in front of his kitchen window had escalated. Time was running out. He could feel it deep in his gut and the knowledge was suffocating him.

  Fuck. He didn’t care whether she was psychic or not. He just wanted her back. Safe. He wanted to come home at the end of the day and find her there. He wanted to make love to her, maybe even have a kid someday. He wanted her like he’d never wanted anything else in his life.

  He moved away from where the techs were processing the van. Storm joined him. “Anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Her focus shifted to his hand. Trace gave the ring another twist and cursed inwardly. Wasn’t he a picture? Standing here wringing his hands like a wimp.

  Storm stared at the ring a minute longer before squaring her shoulders. He braced himself. She hesitated a second longer then said, “Look, hear me out before you start in on your ‘I hate this psychic bullshit’ rant. Okay? You’re going to think what you’re going to think, but I have to live with myself, too. Here’s it in a nutshell. You remember the book that Aislinn said Patrick Dean handled before he died? Well, that’s where I was, talking to the author. He’s legit. In fact, Lucca’s book would make a good textbook on exposing frauds. Nothing came out of the meeting that will help figure out who killed Dean, but something came out that might help find Aislinn.” Trace stiffened and Storm paused.

  “Lucca found three women who could locate missing people like Aislinn can. But here’s the thing. When I showed him a picture of Aislinn, he just about came unglued. The other women had delicate features like she does and every one of them wore elaborate earrings with crystals embedded in them, just like the ones Aislinn does. Look Trace, I know this is going to sound crazy. Two of the women were single, but one was married. Lucca said that there was a strong psychic connection between the woman and her husband. When the husband got in a wreck, the wife knew and could tell where he was.”

  “You want me to buy into this psychic bullshit and try to ‘connect’ with her,” Trace growled.

  Storm stepped away from. “Hey, like I said, I know it sounds crazy. I’m just telling you what I found out. It’s your choice what you do with it.” She made a sweeping motion toward the van. “This might not even help us find her in time. What have you got to lose by trying it her way?” She turned and moved away.

  “Christ, like I’d even know what to do,” Trace muttered, rubbing his hands over his face and feeling the burn of the ring against his skin.

  He closed his eyes, not really meaning to accept Storm’s suggestion, and yet desperate enough to try it. It was easy enough to concentrate on the ring’s heat, on the way it seemed to radiate from his finger to his face, slowly expanding until it touched his heart. Where are you? he screamed silently, wanting an answer and yet afraid of confronting a dark void and facing the possibility that she might already be dead.

  The ring flared against his skin, making his heart jump. The smell of the ocean flooded his nostril along with the image of Madame Fontaine’s house.

  Trace didn’t stop to question what was happening to him, he spun around and headed for the car, stopping only long enough to grab Conner. “I think he’s going to take her back to Madame Fontaine’s house. That’s where he’s going to stage it. Tell Dylan to stay here and cover this. Grab Miguel,” he hesitated, “and Storm.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The car eased to a stop. Even locked in the trunk, Aislinn could feel the power of the ocean. Had she really touched Trace’s mind? Or did she simply want to believe that he would find her in time, and that she wasn’t going to die?

  A car door opened and closed, then the trunk lifted and fresh ocean air rushed in. “We’re here,” the man said, his voice higher now, full of anticipation. “I’m afraid I can’t linger. Things have gotten a little hotter. But more interesting—much, much more interesting.” He clucked. “The police radio is burning up with chatter tonight, it’s delicious really. A murder cop with a psychic girlfriend. How do you think we should slant it? What about—Furious cop boyfriend tries to cover up homicide by staging copycat murder? It has a certain pizzazz to it.�
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  Aislinn was lifted from the trunk. “Good thing your psychic friend has a private entrance for clients afraid of being seen here.”

  She struggled, unwilling to allow him to carry her into the house without putting up a fight. He tightened his grip until pain and lack of breath forced her to stop. She reached for Trace, sending her terror and her desperation.

  * * * * *

  Anguish flooded through Trace. “Christ, we’re not going to make it in time,” he said, taking a curve fast and sending Conner slamming into the passenger door.

  The police radio chirped to life, giving feedback on what units were nearing the psychic’s house. Trace took another turn then slammed the gas pedal down when he hit the beach frontage road.

  Conner picked up the radio and signaled their position. In the rearview mirror he could see the car Miguel and Storm were in. Miguel’s voice crackled over the radio, “There’s a private entrance on the opposite side of the house—left side if you’re facing the ocean. If the perp’s here, he may have his car parked out of sight there.”

  “We’ll take that entrance,” Trace said and Conner repeated it into the radio.

  “Acknowledged,” Miguel replied.

  * * * * *

  Aislinn’s struggles slowed the man, but didn’t stop him. The smell of Ilsa’s aromatic candles grew stronger as his footsteps echoed in the quiet of the house.

  He used Aislinn’s arm and shoulder to push through the door to the consultation room. In her mind’s eye, she could see the room perfectly.

  The click of his lighter sounded sharp and grew more unnerving as he made his way around the room, lighting candles. When the last one was lit, he laid her on the cloth-covered table.

  Aislinn heard the rustle of material and the soft brush of stone against stone. “It would have been more appropriate to use these with Madame Fontaine, but necessity dictates, I’m afraid.” There was more rustling, then Aislinn felt Ilsa’s runes drop onto her chest. “My mother was a fan of all things psychic. She squandered every dime she had and listened to every crackpot who hung a shingle out. If it had just been her life, then I could be a little more forgiving about it, but I’m afraid she had the tendency to use her psychics as a source for child-rearing. Most took the easy way out, of course, telling her things like, ‘I see good things in store for your son’, which meant my mother left me to my own devices and didn’t interfere. But some of them took special delight in dire predictions. After a while, I grew to hate them.” He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh.