She and Wade both made polite assurances, but the stranger's smile grew wry with apology.
"I have to plead guilty to not paying attention. All this-these roses takes me back a bit. The first time I saw my wife was in a rose garden."
He's holding something back, Tierney thought. A private memory, something delicious…
"Really? Where was that?"
To her surprise it was Wade who picked up the conversational ball, at the same time throwing her a glance that had question pouring out of it like water from a faucet. She didn't read minds, but she knew he was asking her for her "take" on the stranger.
It frustrated her to admit she didn't have one-not one she trusted. He seemed benign, but at the same time…
How odd. It's almost as if…he has the same bits and pieces missing as Wade. The same fragments of violence and danger that pop into his gentler emotions now and then, like gunfire way off in the distance.
"Washington," the stranger said, and quickly added, "D.C., not state."
"Ah," said Wade. "That where you're from?"
"No, but my job takes me there a lot. Among other places. I'm a journalist, by the way-Cory Pearson." He held out his hand.
"Wade Callahan-I'm a cop," Wade said as he took it.
"Really? Here? In Portland?"
He knows that, Tierney thought, but it doesn 't alarm him. Then two "impressions" hit her simultaneously.
Love!
Lies!
She knew the man was hiding his true self, holding himself in check, guarding emotions so powerful he couldn't quite contain them.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything to get Wade's attention, but the words wouldn't come. The force of the 'impressions' had literally taken her breath away.
The moment of paralysis passed, as it always did, and she was able to draw breath, and with it a little gasp that was the prelude to speech, to the warning she needed to give. But before she could speak she felt a timid touch on her arm. She turned to find an Asian man standing there, shyly holding out his camera and pointing to himself and then to his large family, nodding and smiling at her from a short distance away.
As Tierney took the man's camera and followed him to where his family had assembled for a photo in front of a bed of roses in full and glorious bloom, she heard the stranger- Cory Pearson-say to Wade, "Hey, there's a thought- would you mind? For my wife. She'll love this…"
Her mind was in turmoil, trying to concentrate on two things at once and failing to keep up with either one. The Asian family was patient with her hesitation, thinking she was having trouble understanding their camera. They were all chattering helpfully at her and pointing to this button and that one. Meanwhile, she could hear Wade and the stranger talking together in low-key but friendly tones as Wade obligingly took several photos with the man standing in front of different varieties of roses, then one with the city and Mount Hood in the distant background.
And all the time they were moving farther and farther away from her.
By the time the family had run out of poses, reclaimed their camera and moved on, she was ready to weep with frustration. She turned to look for Wade, keeping one hand clasped to her forehead, which had begun to ache from the pressure of her silently screamed-and futile-warnings.
She spotted him at last on the lower level, idly strolling and obviously alone. And watching for her, because as soon as he saw her looking his way he lifted a hand and started toward her. She hurried to meet him, then broke into a run-probably not the wisest move, given the sandals she was wearing. She watched his attitude change from relaxed to alert as he read the urgency on her face, saw him quicken his step and reach for her in time to keep her from plunging headlong into his arms.
"Whoa," he said as he steadied her, holding her firmly by the arms.
Heat and strength enveloped her, and a rich masculine aura filled her senses, and she felt safe…protected. It was what he'd felt, she realized, as a child and in his dreams. It felt so wonderful, for a moment she wanted to weep like a child herself, a child finding shelter in loving arms.
"What's the matter? Something happen, or did you just pick up on somebody's crisis?"
She struggled to shake off the emotions, gulp back the threatening tears, and managed to achieve a semblance of calm. "Where is he? The man with the camera-where did he go?"
"I don't know-moved on, I guess. Why? Did you-"
"Yes. We have to find him. Wade-I'm almost sure he's The Watcher."
Chapter 6
"You're sure about this? No mistake?"
Tierney gave Wade a quick glance and said jerkily, "I know what I felt." She was out of breath from walking rapidly, trying to keep up with him as they'd scoured every inch of the rose garden.
She'd long ago taken off her shoes and was carrying them in one hand, dangling by the heel straps. As she lifted the shoes in order to wipe the back of her hand against a trickle of sweat creeping down her forehead. Wade eyed the shoes and frowned.
"Look, there's no point in running all over the place. He's gone by now anyway."
She halted and let her shoulders slump. "Wade, I'm sorry. I should have-"
"Not your fault." It was the same thing he'd said the first eight or so times she'd apologized. And she still didn't believe it.
"I picked it up when he shook your hand. I could have said something then, but there was that family wanting me to take their pictures. I should have just told them no, or I didn't understand, or something."
"Forget it. We've got his name, anyway-assuming he gave us the right one. Cory Pearson-jeez, a journalist? And you're sure he's the one. You didn't just pick up somebody else's emotions that happened to be floating around? You did say they have weddings here. The whole place is probably lousy with love."
She lifted her hand-and the shoes-again, this time in an unsuccessful attempt to catch the bubble of laughter that burst from her lips.
Wade threw her a look and said. "What's funny?"
She shook her head, still smiling, knowing it would be pointless to say. "Nothing." Knowing she couldn't possibly tell him how ridiculously happy it made her feel that he believed in her gift.
Although…it was a happiness so fragile that even recognizing its existence was enough to destroy it. What was she thinking? To let anyone's opinion of her matter so much was unwise. To allow any man's belief or disbelief to have the power to affect her happiness was just stupidity. To let this man's acceptance mean so much was both of those things to the nth degree. It was lunacy. Dangerous. Sheer insanity.
"It's just funny to hear you say that," she said as her smile grew wry, "as if you actually believe me. A couple days ago you felt quite a bit differently about me, I think." It was a compromise, of sorts.
He seemed to accept it, gave his own short bark of laughter, then frowned as he thought about it. "I'm still not sure about the psychic stuff, frankly." he said in a gruff, half-embarrassed tone. "You've got something, though- good instincts, people smarts-I don't know what it is, but I'd be a fool not to use it."
Which was a load of bull…whatever. He did believe. He believed in her. It was that simple.
Or that complicated.
"And speaking of that…have you got a few minutes?" He barely waited for her nod and murmured assent before putting his hand on her elbow and steering her toward the rose garden's exit. He glanced at the shoes in her hand and his frown deepened as he experienced an insane desire to pick her up and carry her. "Would you mind stopping by my place…see if you can pick up anything from the guy that was watching my apartment this morning? I don't live too far from here. Just take a minute."
"Okay, sure. Shall I follow you in my car or…"
"No sense in taking separate vehicles. I can drop you off here on my way back to the shop."
It was the most logistically sensible solution, he told himself, and had nothing to do with any reluctance he may or may not have felt about parting company with her.
He was careful to
keep his vague sense of guilt blocked, but it accounted for the edge in his voice when he spoke to her, and the silence in the car on the way to his place.
It's police business, he told himself. He needed her in the car with him so he could get her impressions on the spot. But as he pulled up to the curb across the street from the Hofmeyers' 1930's style bungalow and parked in the approximate spot where the watcher's car had been this morning, he looked up at the windows of his apartment and his mind insisted on putting Tierney Doyle in the room behind those windows. In his bedroom. More precisely, in his bed. Naked. With her hair tousled on his pillow and her cheeks flushed and rosy and a very satisfied smile on her kiss-swollen lips. And her body…
He swore silently and earnestly. Shifted in his seat and twitched his suit jacket around to hide his growing discomfort as he looked over at Tierney. "Well? You getting anything?"
Damned if her cheeks weren't flushed and rosy, exactly like his daydream version, except she wasn't smiling. Her hands were knotted together in her lap and the shine in her eyes looked more like embarrassment than sexual fulfillment. Lord help me, he thought. I tried to block it, I really did.
"Um…I'm picking up some really strong emotions." Tierney said, "but I don't think they're from The Watcher." She cleared her throat and flashed him a small, tenuous smile. "I think somebody must be-" She put a hand over her eyes and muttered. "Lord, this is embarrassing…um, making love-really close by. Because all I can pick up is-"
"Yeah, yeah," Wade growled, "I get the picture." He did, too-all too well. Evidently some emotions were just too powerful to block.
"Wade, I'm sorry. I'm not getting anything else. That one-it's just that it's one of the most powerful emotions-"
"Yeah, right up there with killing." he said dryly as he reached for the ignition key.
He felt her eyes on him. "It's true. I hadn't thought about it, but yes…two of the most powerful human emotions involve the creating of life, and the taking of it. But I do wish-"
"Forget it." Please! "It's not your fault."
Which was putting it mildly. He was pretty sure the idea of cavorting naked in his bedsheets would be the furthest thing from her mind.
And if he wasn't careful, thoughts like that could get him in a load of trouble. Charges of sexual harassment, at least. He'd have to watch himself from now on. He'd let himself get too damn comfortable with her today.
Picnicking with her, for God's sake. Couldn't let that happen again.
He drove her back to the Rose Garden to pick up her car with his elbow on the windowsill and his hand covering his mouth, angry with himself. And even though he remembered to block it, he knew from her troubled silence that Tierney still felt the anger and believed it was directed at her.
What the hell-it's better this way.
So why did he feel sick, sorry and sad, as if he'd just been involved in a lover's quarrel?
Wade had just draped his jacket over the back of his chair and was in the process of taking his cell phone and weapon out of their holsters when Ochoa and Washburn, the Robbery-Homicide twins, surrounded him. Ochoa dropped a short stack of papers on his desk, then hitched one hip onto a corner while Washburn took the visitor's chair beside it.
"What the hell's this?" Wade was in no mood for cryptic.
"Officer Williams's traffic citations that fit the 'profile.' And that's just for the last month." Washburn said.
Ochoa chimed in, "Evidently, the majority of traffic miscreants tend to fall into the category of young single males. Go figure."
Wade cut the stack of citations like a deck of cards and handed one to each of the detectives. "Okay, start running 'em down. See who's in the system for something worse than a traffic ticket. Check out the addresses. Check everything. See if anything jumps out. We're looking at somebody who's probably been in trouble as a juvenile. Maybe foster care."
Ochoa and Washburn looked at each other. Washburn, the comedian, said. "Job would go a lot faster if we split the pile three ways, boss."
Wade, who was already turning to his computer, swiveled back to glower at the pair, then gave an impatient "gimme" wave. "Okay, divvy up. I got something else to take care of first, though. Might take me a while…"
Wade waited until the two detectives had each slapped down a wad of citations and had gone off looking pleased with themselves, then brought up the Google screen, typed in "Cory Pearson journalist" and hit Search.
"Oh, Cory-you actually met him?" His wife's voice on the phone sounded choked-up, which naturally made his throat do the same.
"Yep," he said, grinning like an idiot. "I introduced myself and everything. Didn't mention the part about us being brothers, though."
There was a pause, and then. "You told him your name? Was that wise?"
"Well, I guess we'll see. I wanted-I don't know, I guess I was hoping it might jog a memory loose."
"Yes, but like you said, he's a cop. They're suspicious by nature. What if he decides to check you out?"
"Good-let him. Maybe that will bring something back. Although I'm not sure he's going to have a lot of time to devote to looking into my background, with this serial murder investigation they've got going here."
"I heard about that," Sam said. "It's made the national news."
"Yes," Cory said sadly. "Serial killings always do."
"Speaking of killing…" Sam's voice sounded sorrowful. "Your office called. Seems Beirut's exploded again. They want you there-yesterday."
He swore inventively, raked fingers through his hair and closed his eyes.
"He's not going anywhere, Pearse," his wife said gently. You know who he is and where he is. He'll still be there when you get back."
"Yeah, okay, you're right," he said on a long exhalation.
But he was a journalist who'd seen more of sudden death and young lives cut short than most people would in several lifetimes. Enough to know that what his wife had said wasn't always true.
The rest of the week passed the way Tierney's days always did. She tended the gallery, painted when she could, spent time picking up after Jeannette. And something new: tried not to think of Wade.
She thought about Wade a lot. There had been no more torture killings, and so no word from him. for which she was grateful on several counts-besides the obvious. She needed all the time she could squeeze out of every day to paint, getting ready for the Rose Festival. Or so she told herself. And she didn't like to leave Jeannette alone so much-she told herself that, too. Both of those things were true, but her biggest and best reason for being glad Wade hadn't called her-other than natural relief that no more women had suffered hideous deaths at the hands of a monster-was because she so badly wanted him to.
Although, why she should want to see him ever again was a mystery to her, after the way their picnic lunch at the Rose Gardens had ended.
She'd known immediately the erotic impressions she'd picked up were his-of course she had. And that she was the object of them-she'd known that, too. The feelings had been strong, clear and explicit, and as feelings like that did sometimes, they'd actually formed images in her mind. It wasn't the first time she'd picked up sexual fantasies involving her from men, and even, on a couple of occasions, from women. What was different about this time, and so unsettling to her, was the way she'd responded to them.
To him.
Usually when she picked up something blatantly sexual, she would throw up a mental block, remind herself it was normal and human to have such feelings, and ignore them. But this time… How had she let it happen? Had her guard been down? Or was it because she was attracted to him already? She tried not to ask herself those questions because every time she did it all came back-the way her heart had picked up his slow, heavy, sultry beat. The way the heat had spread through her body like lava, sizzling beneath her skin and settling in the lowest parts of her so that she felt both weighted and restless at the same time. The way she'd longed…ached…needed to be touched.
It had been a long time sin
ce she'd been touched that way.
Once in a while, she'd let Why not? cross her mind like a mouse making a daring dash over open floor.
But…no. The time wasn't right, and neither was he. A cop? Bad enough, as terrible at relationships as they were known to be. And this one with those missing pieces, missing memories, and skeletons in his closet even he didn't know about? No.
And besides that, there was Jeannette, who needed her more and more every day. These days Tierney had to help her grandmother with nearly everything, from getting dressed in the morning to going to bed at night. And in between there was the constant vigilance necessary to keep Jeannette from wandering off. hurting herself or setting the apartment on fire. Tierney had learned, sometimes the hard way, to keep anything that might cut, stab, poison, ignite, kindle, break, fall or tip over hidden or put away out of her grandmother's reach. Electrical outlets were covered by furniture that couldn't be easily moved, or taped over with duct tape. The knobs for the stove burners were hidden in a high cupboard, and all cupboard doors and drawers containing objects that might be dangerous or broken were locked with childproof fasteners. Windows and doors were kept locked, and the water heater was turned down to low.
But far, far worse than all that was losing the essential person that was Jeannette. Every day the shining light that had been her personality grew dimmer. Every day Tierney could feel the special link that had always been there between them becoming thinner, like a rubberband stretching…stretching. One day, she knew-probably soon-that bond would snap, and nothing would ever be able to put it back together. Her grandmother would be gone. Forever.
Sometimes, Tierney just had to go somewhere-the bathroom, or her workroom, or maybe the car-so she could cry.
No, this wasn't the time to be thinking about love, or even sex. And certainly not Wade.
As the days continued to roll by with no new victims. Wade and the other members of the TK-Torture Killer- Task Force grew more and more edgy. On the one hand, of course, everyone was relieved not to have to deal with another woman's brutalized body. But no new victims meant no new leads, no chance for new evidence or even, please Lord, a witness. And worse than that was the growing fear that the killer might have slipped through their fingers.
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