by Кей Хупер
Nell belonged to the latter group.
She had been matter-of-fact and cool about the risks to Max, but the truth was that Bishop kept an unusually close eye on her simply because her abilities were unique even in his considerable experience of the paranormal, and nobody could even hazard a guess as to how much sheer electrical energy her brain was capable of producing — and capable of surviving.
It was beginning to look like she was closer to her limits than she had ever been before.
Nell watched the haunted-looking woman in the mirror bite her lip, then turned away with a muttered curse. Worrying about it, she knew, wouldn't change a damned thing. All she could do was try to get to the bottom of these murders as quickly as she possibly could.
She found her shoes and put them on, then picked up her jacket and fished her cell phone out of the pocket.
"Yeah." His voice was, as always, calm and curiously implacable, like something deeply rooted and utterly certain of itself and its place in the universe.
She envied him that.
"It's me. Are you nearby?"
"About a hundred yards from the house. Close as I could get without being seen. I was going to give it another fifteen minutes and then come in after you. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just woke up."
"Two blackouts in one day is not fine, Neil."
"Okay, maybe I overstated that." She tried to make her voice amused and unconcerned. "But I'm up and functional."
"I don't like this."
"I'm not crazy about it either. But it's the only game in town and you know it."
"Yeah, well, there's something else I know. Word from on high is we'd better all watch our backs. That shadow on the photograph is just what we thought it was."
"Shit. I was hoping we were wrong." Nell tried to ignore the chill crawling up and down her spine. It was becoming a familiar sensation.
"No such luck. He's watching you, Nell, or at least was that once. And we have no way of knowing why."
"But we have to assume he's on to me somehow."
"That's the general consensus. He either knows who and what you are or else doesn't know but perceives you as a threat. Maybe because he's psychic. If you've encountered him casually since you got here, he could have gotten some sense of your abilities and realized you might be able to stop him."
She drew a deep breath. "Okay. Then I have to move faster."
"Faster means you could get careless."
"And slower means I could get dead."
He swore.
Nell didn't wait for him to offer more objections, just said, "Any luck finding Hailey?"
"Not yet. You did say she'd be likely to change her name whether or not she married Sabella, and maybe change other stuff as well."
"Yeah."
"That'll make it harder."
"I know. But we need to find her."
"Another tie to her in the Patterson house?" he guessed.
"You could say that."
He didn't ask for details, just said, "Then I'll light a fire under the boys at Quantico. And in the meantime?"
She knew what he was asking. "In the meantime… I have to think of something to tell Max."
"How about the truth?"
"Which one?" she demanded ruefully.
"The only one he's interested in, I'd say. He carried you back here, you know. Held you across his lap the whole way. On horseback yet. Impressed the hell out of me."
It impressed Nell too, but she wasn't willing to admit that. "He's always been a natural horseman."
"And a white knight?"
"Some men are like that."
"I wouldn't know. Look, a couple of deputies showed up a few minutes ago."
"Yeah, I saw them."
"I hear they're patrolling all over the parish to keep a close eye on citizens and paying particular attention to the more out-of-the-way places, like this ranch. And your place. If they go by there and find you gone even though your Jeep's in the drive, they might start asking awkward questions."
"I'll say I went riding with Max. Nobody will be surprised."
"He didn't tell them you were here."
"Nobody would be surprised by that either."
He chuckled suddenly. "You know, if this situation weren't such a deadly one, I'd love to sit peacefully on the sidelines and watch you two figure out your relationship."
"You've never sat peacefully on the sidelines in your life."
"Always a first time." His voice sobered. "The blackouts are a warning, Nell, you know that. You can't go on pushing yourself and expect to keep getting away with it."
"I know."
"So be careful."
"Ill do my best."
"Why doesn't that reassure me?" Without waiting for a response, he broke the connection.
Nell slowly returned the phone to her pocket. Under her breath, she murmured, "Probably for the same reason it doesn't reassure me. Because I'm running out of time."
Ethan Cole had brooded about it all day. He wanted to blame Shelby for putting the idea into his head, but the truth was, he'd been thinking for at least a couple of days that maybe he'd see if there was anything Nell Gallagher could tell him about the series of murders in Silence.
Not that he believed in any of that psychic bullshit, of course. And he wasn't anxious to have the town gossips speculating as to his interest in Nell; Shelby had been right about that, damn her.
But he had a feeling Nell could tell him something useful, and he wasn't prepared to examine that feeling too closely. It was all mixed up with other feelings, like the desire to see Nell again, talk to her. Like his growing need to settle with Max and put the past behind them once and for all. Like the sensation of dread that had been hanging over him and getting stronger with every day that passed.
And like the uneasy sense that what was happening in his town was darker and more twisted than anything he could imagine.
Uglier than anything he could understand.
But he meant to do his job, and doing his job meant he needed to talk to Nell as soon as possible. That was very clear and perfectly reasonable and logical. She was a potential source of information, that was all. To do his job effectively, he really should go and talk to her.
So when the patrol checking things out at the Gallagher place reported in that she wasn't anywhere about even though her Jeep was parked in the driveway, he took advantage of the chance.
"Never mind, Steve," he told Deputy Critcher. "She's probably out walking in the woods." Or out riding with Max, he added silently, the way she used to. "We can't chase after every citizen in the parish just because they go out to stretch their legs and get some air. I'll send somebody to check on her tomorrow morning or do it myself."
"Okay, Sheriff. You want us to stick around 'til she comes back home?"
"No, that's okay. Continue your patrol."
"Copy that. Over and out."
Ethan absently set his radio's microphone aside and leaned back until his chair creaked, then frowned as he noticed Justin Byers standing in the doorway of the office.
"Didn't want to interrupt," Byers said.
"Nothing to interrupt. Just patrols reporting in. Have you got something to report?"
"I've got a question, Sheriff."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"I was just wondering if you'd know why George Caldwell spent hours at the courthouse just a week or so before he died, studying birth records for Lacombe Parish. I can't find anything at his apartment to explain what he was doing or why."
Ethan stared at the detective. "Birth records?"
"Yeah."
"How do you know he was doing that?"
"Somebody saw him. And according to the clerk, those were the records he asked to see. Birth records. For the last forty years."
"Not work-related?"
"According to what I've been able to find out, no. But more than one person has told me he sometimes dug around in parish and court records, apparently j
ust out of interest."
Ethan grunted. "He was always a nosy bastard."
"Then maybe it was just curiosity."
"The clerk didn't know if he was looking for anything more specific?"
"No. And as far as I can make out, if he copied any of the records he looked at, he didn't have the copies anywhere in his apartment or his office. Unless, of course, the killer took the copies."
Slowly, Ethan said, "That's a pretty big if. You don't know that George found whatever it was he was looking for, or even if he was looking for anything specific, much less if it had anything to do with his death."
"No," Byers admitted. "I don't. But so far, it's the most interesting unanswered question I can find in George Caldwell's immediate past."
"Then I suggest you find an answer to that question,
Detective," Ethan said. "And be polite when you ask the clerk for help. Libby Gettys is worse than my old grammar school teacher about manners."
Serious as usual, Byers didn't react to the attempt at humor other than with a solemn nod. "I'll check it out. But forty years' worth of birth records will take time to sift through, especially when I don't know what I'm looking for."
"Understood. Do your best. And, Justin? Keep this under your hat for the time being. There's no reason to give the gossips something else to speculate about."
Byers nodded, still solemn, and left.
Ethan stared across the office, feeling that creeping sensation of dread moving even closer.
"Shit," he muttered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nell paused at the bottom of the stairs. Through the front screen door she could see that the sheriff's department cruiser was gone, and Max was nowhere to be seen. But he was nearby, she knew that.
She crossed the foyer to what was clearly Max's office or study and went into the room The desk lamp and a couple of other lights were on, as well as a PC running a martial-arts-theme screen saver, and a ledger was open on the blotter. She didn't have to use any of her extra senses to figure out that he had been working in here when the deputies arrived.
Probably waiting with all the patience he could scrape together for her to come out of the blackout and tell him what the hell was going on.
Nell hadn't let herself think very much about the trip from Randal Patterson's house, though she wasn't surprised that Max had brought her here rather than take her to a doctor or hospital. He had never under-stood her abilities or the blackouts, but she had convinced him they were normal for her, and she doubted he would have overreacted to her sudden unconsciousness.
Not Max.
Instead, knowing that she was an FBI agent undercover here and involved in a murder investigation would have made him even more disinclined than usual to trust anyone else, especially with her vulnerable self. As long as he believed she wasn't in any immediate danger medically from the blackout, Max's inclination would be to take her someplace safe and comfortable and wait for her to come out of it.
Nell knew what the blackouts looked like. Like she was asleep, basically. Normal pulse and respiration, no fever, pupil response normal.
Like she was just sleeping, and in no danger at all. And it was something he had seen before, more than once, even if it had been years ago. He would have known she was okay.
So Max had brought her here to his home, on horseback for God's sake, and she had a pretty strong hunch he'd managed to get her into the house without any of his ranch hands even knowing about it.
Shaking her head half-consciously, Nell wandered over to the tall bookcases flanking the fireplace in the room and began absently scanning the titles. But idle interest rapidly became something else as she slowly ran her finger along the spines of the books.
Psychology and parapsychology. Ghosts and hauntings. Telepathy. Precognition. Reincarnation. Telekinesis. Spiritualism. Healing. Astral projection. Remote viewing. Clairvoyance.
His library was wonderfully complete, with books covering everything from the prophecies of Nostradamus and the inexplicable long-ago psychic diagnoses and predictions of Edgar Cayce to the government's own experiments in remote viewing during the Cold War. And the books were obviously well read, most of them with numerous bookmarks or dog-eared pages to mark interesting passages.
Nell felt a pang, wondering how soon after she ran away he had first turned to these books in search of answers. Had it been soon after, when he had tried to open a door only to discover he wasn't able to? Had he learned to hate her then?
"I was out of my mind to come back here," Nell muttered.
"Let's hope not," Max said from the doorway. His voice changed when he added, "Are you all right?"
Nell turned to look at him, nodding slowly. "I'm fine. It was just a blackout, you know that."
"Was it? Just a blackout? You said yourself there was something different about it. Or don't you remember telling me that?"
"I remember." She wondered if he remained standing in the doorway to block her retreat; did he expect her to bolt from his house? Probably. Probably. "It was a little sudden, that's all. I usually get more warning."
"I remember. So what does it mean that this time you had no warning at all?"
She forced a smile. "Hell if I know. Like I told you, all this is pretty much theoretical at present. I guess… the stress is taking more of a toll than I'd realized."
"The blackout was a warning to stop."
"Maybe. Or slow down. Or maybe it was just a random event that held no meaning at all. I won't run away, Max, if that's why you're still blocking the doorway."
"You ran away once before," he reminded her, his voice suddenly rough again.
"That was different."
"Was it? I know you don't want to talk about this yet, but there's one thing I have to know, Nell. Was it something I did? Was it my fault?"
"Well?" Shelby demanded.
"He doesn't know anything about it," Justin replied, joining her in the car.
"Or says he doesn't."
Justin leaned back and eyed her thoughtfully. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you known Ethan Cole for most of your life?"
"You're not wrong."
"But you suspect him of…what? Knowing more about this series of murders than he's willing to say?"
"At the very least," she replied promptly.
"Why?"
"I told you why."
"You told me why you came to me with the information about George Caldwell and those records he was looking into. Because I'm the most recent hire in the sheriff's department, a virtual stranger to this town and so pretty much off the suspect list, at least in your mind."
He drew a breath. "You haven't told me why any of this concerns you, why you believe anyone in the sheriff's department would be on the suspect list in the first place, and you haven't told me why Sheriff Cole seems to be at the top of that list."
"I guess I should answer the first question first."
"I wish you would."
Shelby half shrugged. "It concerns me because this is my town and because I can't not be concerned. It concerns me because I have an inquisitive nature — as anyone will tell you. And it concerns me because I really, really don't like murder."
"Okay," he said slowly. "And the rest?"
Shelby hesitated for just long enough to make her seeming reluctance look real. "I think someone in the sheriff's department might be involved because of a few things I've seen and heard. Nothing I could explain to somebody else, more of a feeling than a fact."
"That's pretty thin, Shelby."
"Yeah. But am I wrong?"
Instead of replying to that, he said, "What you still haven't explained is why you believe Sheriff Cole is at the top of your suspect list."
"Because I know him. And I know he's not… behaving the way he usually does when he wants to get to the bottom of something."
"And from that you think he's hiding something?"
"That's what got me interested, Justin. It's what made me watch him. And when I
did, I went back and checked through all the pictures I'd taken around town in the past year."
"And?"
Shelby reached into her big canvas tote bag and pulled out a manila envelope. "And this is what I found."
Justin opened the envelope and slowly examined each of the photos. "It's hardly conclusive," he said finally.
"No. But it is… interesting, isn't it, Justin? It's very, very interesting."
While Nell was still trying to make up her mind how to answer Max, he said abruptly, "Look, it's after six, and I know damned well you haven't eaten since lunchtime — if then. My housekeeper always leaves supper in the oven for me. Why don't we talk while we eat?" In a dry tone, he added, "It'll give you more time to decide how much to tell me."
Nell didn't protest, partly because she knew food would provide her with badly needed fuel; she was inexplicably tired, a disturbing feeling since the blackouts usually left her feeling rested. So all she said was, "I guess a busy rancher needs a housekeeper."
"He does if he hates housework and can't cook," Max responded frankly. "Come on."
Half an hour later, they were sharing a delicious and definitely man-sized chicken pie and salad, sitting opposite each other at a small oak table in a breakfast nook surrounded by windows that probably, in daytime, looked out over his rolling ranch land. The windows were dark now, of course, and since they were curtained only by valances across the tops, the expanse of reflective black glass gave Nell the creepy feeling she was being watched.
At least, she told herself that was the cause of the feeling.
Max kept the conversation low-key and casual while they ate, an abeyance of at least one kind of tension that Nell appreciated, even if she was still conscious of his unanswered question hanging over her like a sword.
What did Max really want to know?
The truth? Which truth? How much of the truth?
And if she was able to offer him the truth he needed, what then? What would change? How would he feel after what he learned, about the past… about her?
He poured coffee for them and cleared the table, allowing her even more time to brood, and when he finally returned to the table, he asked her again the question he obviously most wanted the answer to.