by Kay Hooper
She jerked her hand away and quickly moved to the nightstand beside the bed and the lamp there. She turned it on, blinking in the light, and looked back at the window.
Gray, featureless panes of glass. No fog or frost.
No desperate plea.
“Of course,” Diana murmured after a long moment. “Because I’m obviously out of my mind.”
She managed to at least partially shake off the cold uneasiness she felt, telling herself it had probably been her imagination anyway. Just . . . a leftover wisp of whatever she’d been dreaming.
Probably.
She turned on a few more lamps in the cottage, checked the doors to make sure they were all locked, and then went and took a long, hot shower.
She actually wished she could believe there had been someone outside her window. Because if someone had been out there, then at least that would have been a flesh-and-blood thing. A real thing. Whether an attempt to frighten her, a stupid joke, or an actual plea for her help, it would have been real.
Not all in her head.
It was daylight, the sun rising above the mountains and rapidly burning off the mist, by the time Diana was dressed, but it was still early. It was her habit to either make coffee in her cottage’s tiny kitchenette or else order room service, but on this morning she really didn’t want to spend any more time alone.
She picked up the sketchpad and pencils that Beau Rafferty had given her and slipped them into an oversized tote bag and dropped her billfold and keycard in there as well, hoping she wouldn’t have to have the latter rekeyed again. She’d already had to do that half a dozen times in the two weeks she’d been here, to the bafflement of the hotel staff.
She left the cottage, a bit relieved, as she moved toward the main building, to find the fog all but gone and others stirring even this early. Groundskeepers were working in the gardens, the heated outdoor pool Diana passed already boasted a couple of morning swimmers doing serious laps, and she could dimly hear the sounds of activity down at the stables.
At least three of the tables on the veranda overlooking the gardens were occupied by yawning guests with coffee and the morning newspaper. Diana had intended to find a table there and have breakfast, but instead found herself crossing the veranda and going into the main building.
The observation tower.
That was where she was headed, though she only consciously realized it when she began climbing the stairs. Part of her wanted to turn around and go back, if only to get some caffeine into her system, but she couldn’t seem to make herself do that.
Which was more than a little unsettling.
“Dammit,” she muttered as she neared the top. “I don’t need to sightsee, I need some coffee.”
“Help yourself.”
Diana held on to the railing at the top of the stairs and looked at the man who had spoken, conscious of shock—but surely not as much as she should have felt—to see him there. To see him.
He was standing, leaning a shoulder against the casing of one of the unshuttered windows that encircled the room, a coffee cup in one hand. Despite the early hour he looked wide-awake, and was casual in jeans and a dark sweatshirt.
“The waiter brought up two cups,” he continued, “so maybe he knew something I didn’t. Then again, maybe it was just a screwup with room service. In any case, you’re welcome to join me. There’s plenty.” He gestured toward a nearby small table, on which sat a silver tray with a coffeepot, cream jug and sugar bowl, the second cup and saucer, and a plate holding assorted pastries.
“I—you obviously wanted to be alone up here,” she managed to say finally.
“Want didn’t have much to do with it,” he said. “Most of the early birds are up for a reason. Golf, swimming, the morning ritual of coffee and newspaper. I’m just up because I couldn’t sleep. And up here because I might as well be looking at nice scenery if I have to be awake at the crack of dawn. How about you?”
Diana hesitated for another moment, then went to the small table and poured coffee into the second cup, vaguely surprised to find her hands steady. “I couldn’t sleep either. Think maybe the place is haunted?”
She had meant it as a lame joke, but when he didn’t respond right away, looked up quickly to catch a fleeting expression she instinctively identified as pain or loss. He does think the place is haunted. And the ghosts are his.
“I think a sleepless night could make me believe in almost anything,” he said lightly, smiling. “But then the sun comes up, the world looks and feels the way it should, and I’m not quite so willing to believe. My name’s Quentin Hayes, by the way.”
“I’m—Diana Brisco.”
“Nice to meet you, Diana Brisco.”
He stepped toward her, free hand outstretched, and Diana hesitated only an instant before shaking hands with the man whose face she had sketched yesterday.
Before ever setting eyes on him.
Madison Sims was what her mother termed “an imaginative child,” a definition Madison herself understood perfectly. It meant that her mother and other grownups didn’t believe her when she told them that her so-called imaginary friends were actually real—if not flesh and blood.
Madison was a very bright eight-year-old and had caught on quickly to the fact that saying things like that made people uncomfortable. And her uncomfortable, since it led to conversations between her parents in hushed voices, and visits to doctors, and wary looks from other grownups.
So she had stopped talking about her friends, and when her mother oh-so-casually asked about them, had lied without a blink. Did she still see children dressed as if they had stepped out of an old movie, children who seemingly walked through walls and whose laughter and voices only she could hear?
Nope. Nuh-uh. Not Madison.
Mama wouldn’t be mad at her if she told the truth, she knew that, didn’t she?
She knew it. But Madison had discovered even in her young life that there was truth . . . and then there was truth. And she had learned that some truths were better kept to herself.
Besides, she didn’t always see the other children. Never at home, in their almost-new house near the ocean. And seldom at the homes of other family or her “real” friends. Just, mostly, at places like The Lodge, old places.
She liked The Lodge, even though there was a sad feeling to some of the rooms and parts of the grounds. She loved the gardens, where, she had discovered the previous day, it was possible to walk for hours with her little Yorkie, Angelo, and not be scolded by the gardeners for trampling the flowers.
Where the other children liked to play.
It was still very early when she was allowed to excuse herself from the breakfast table and left her parents to finish their meal on the veranda while she and Angelo went off to explore the gardens they hadn’t got to the previous day.
“Don’t go outside the fence, Madison,” her mother warned.
“I won’t, Mama. Come on, Angelo.”
The Lodge provided a little postcard map of the gardens, and Madison consulted that as she and her attentive companion paused just out of sight of the veranda. Rose Garden, she’d seen that yesterday after they’d arrived here. And the greenhouse. She’d also seen the Rock Garden the previous day. But she hadn’t seen the Zen Garden, and that certainly sounded like something worth seeing.
She glanced back toward The Lodge, her gaze traveling up to the observation tower she had also seen the day before. Her eyesight was very good, and she could make out a man and woman standing up there, looking down at her.
“This way, Madison.”
She looked back toward the gardens to see a smiling little girl beckoning. Feeling suddenly happy, Madison waved gaily to the couple up in the tower and then followed this new friend toward the path leading off into the Zen Garden.
“Is she yours?” Diana asked as the little girl waved up at them and then raced off with her dog toward one of the garden paths.
“No, I’ve never seen her before.” Quentin frowned slig
htly, adding, “Haven’t seen any other kids here, in fact, since I got here yesterday. I hope someone’s keeping an eye on her. This isn’t the safest place for children.”
“Isn’t it? Why?”
He returned his attention to Diana and smiled, neither of which was difficult. “Oh . . . streams and ponds, horses, snakes from the mountains. That sort of thing.”
It was her turn to frown just a little, those very green eyes of hers direct and thoughtful. “I get the feeling that’s not really what you meant, though.”
Quentin was hardly in the habit of confiding in strangers, so he was surprised by his impulse to confide in this one. He was unusually drawn to her. There was something about Diana Brisco, something in those green eyes or the vulnerable curve of her mouth.
She was striking rather than pretty, with the coppery hair and very fair skin of a true redhead, paired with those unusual green eyes. Her features otherwise were ordinary, though her face held the sharpened look of someone under stress of some kind. And though the fashion magazines would have called her slender, Quentin thought she was too thin by a good ten or fifteen pounds.
She wasn’t his type at all, yet from the instant he had heard her voice and turned his head to see her come into the tower, he had been conscious of the strangest feeling. It was why he had offered to shake hands with her, though that was far more a business or professional gesture than one between strangers meeting casually at a resort.
He had needed to touch her, almost as if something inside him sought reassurance that she was real, that she was here. Finally, she was here.
Peculiar, to say the least.
And now, standing no more than a couple of feet away from her, he was highly conscious of the warm scents of soap and some kind of herbal shampoo. Aware of the gold flecks in her green eyes, and even of her quiet breathing. Hell, he could almost hear her heart beating.
He told himself to turn off the spider sense, but of course that was impossible: whenever he was focused or concentrating, that “extra” sense kicked in, and all his other senses became almost painfully heightened. That was, of course, all it was. He just didn’t know why he was so focused on her, so intent.
“I guess it’s none of my business,” she murmured.
The silence had definitely gone on too long.
“I don’t know that it’s my business,” he told her ruefully. “But I tend to visit The Lodge once every year or so, and over time I’ve . . . become interested in its history. It’s an old place, so there’s plenty of history and quite a few tragedies, some of them involving children.”
Diana glanced back out and down toward where the little girl had disappeared, then returned her gaze to Quentin. “I see. I didn’t know that. But then, this is my first visit here. I haven’t had a chance to look into the history of the place.”
“I’m here on vacation,” he said, not even completely sure why he wanted to steer the conversation away from The Lodge’s potential danger to children when he had, after all, brought up the subject himself. “How about you?”
She took a sip of her coffee, her hesitation almost imperceptible. Almost.
“I’m attending a workshop here for the next few weeks. A rather famous artist is teaching it. Painting.”
“So you’re an artist?”
“Actually, no. It’s more of a . . . therapeutic workshop.” She paused again, and added in a slightly flattened, let’s-get-this-over-with tone, “My doctor recommended it.”
Accustomed to reading between the lines as well as weighing people, Quentin decided that the doctor was undoubtedly a psychiatrist or psychologist. But, possibly unlike other people Diana had encountered before, Quentin had absolutely no bias against or discomfort with mental or emotional issues or the people who treated them. In fact, he understood far better than most just how fragile and troubled the human mind could be.
Especially a psychic’s mind.
And most especially one who might not know that’s what she was.
He was intrigued and more than a little cautious, not quite sure how he should handle a situation he’d never before encountered. At the same time, he was conscious of something he’d felt once or twice before in his life, a certainty of being in the right place at the right time, and that compelled him to follow his instincts.
Rather than just politely accept what she said or shy away from the subject uppermost in her mind, Quentin confronted it directly.
Matter-of-factly, he said, “Our company shrink insists we take vacation time every year whether we want to or not. Plus, of course, we get the inkblots and regular appointments to sit down and talk about anything that might be bothering us.”
“I guess mental and emotional health are issues a lot of companies are more aware of these days,” she said after a moment.
“Especially some companies,” he agreed. “In my case, it’s definitely the wear and tear and just general stress of the job. I’m with the FBI.”
“I never would have guessed. I mean—”
He chuckled. “I know I don’t look the part, according to what’s portrayed on TV and in the movies, but such is fate. The unit I belong to is a little less formal than the traditional FBI mold. Even on the clock, we seldom wear suits and ties. But we’re still cops, and the cases we investigate tend to be the worst of the lot. Which is why doctors and various forms of therapy are used to help us to work more effectively.”
Diana looked down at her coffee cup and, rather abruptly, said, “So it does help you? Therapy?”
“I hope so. None of us has had to take medical leave for emotional or psychological reasons despite several years of dealing with some pretty rough cases involving murderers, rapists, and kidnappers. So something must be working.”
Her mouth twisted, and she murmured, seemingly to herself more than to him, “And I can’t even deal with everyday life.”
“You seem to be dealing just fine,” he told her.
“Oh, I can concentrate pretty well for twenty minutes or half an hour at a stretch. Hold a conversation that actually makes sense. Usually. But then . . .”
“Then, what? What happens, Diana?”
She wavered visibly, then shook her head with a polite, strangers-on-an-elevator smile. “Never mind. You’re on vacation and I’m here for one more round of self-examination. Maybe this one will do the trick. Thanks for sharing your coffee, though. It was nice meeting you, Quentin.”
He wanted to stop her as she turned to set her coffee cup back on the tray, but something told him it would be better to let her go. For now.
“Nice meeting you, Diana. See you around.”
“Sure.” Her tone was still polite, like the distant smile she wore as she left the observation tower.
Quentin looked after her for a long time, then turned his gaze to the morning view.
Bishop had told him once that during the early days of locating and recruiting psychics for the unit, he had found a number of psychically gifted but emotionally fragile people who could never have withstood the demands of police work. Some had barely coped with their abilities just living day to day, while others . . .
Others, Bishop said, had been convinced somewhere in their lives, by doctors or their own seemingly bizarre experiences, that they were mentally ill.
Because, obviously, there was no other explanation for the voices they heard in their heads, or the strangely vivid dreams they experienced, or the blackouts or headaches that plagued them. No other reason to explain why they weren’t “normal” like everybody else.
Conventional medicine was fairly universal in treating such “symptoms” with medication and various other therapies, none of which involved convincing the patient that he or she was, in fact, perfectly normal, and simply possessed an extra sense or two that most other people didn’t share.
So they ended up thinking they were crazy, and since their “problem” was an organic thing perfectly natural to them, the treatments and therapies attempting to fix what had never b
een broken failed them abysmally. And most of them went through life, if they survived at all, so emotionally and psychologically damaged that they never found peace, let alone joy.
Unless they happened to encounter a doctor able to think outside the traditional medical box. Or another psychic with the awareness and willingness to help them.
Diana Brisco, Quentin was certain, was a psychic. He wasn’t sure what ability she possessed; though he could usually recognize another psychic, his own ability allowed him only to look forward—not into another’s mind or emotions. He was also unsure how strong her ability or abilities were.
Strong enough that she was here undergoing “one more round of self-examination” in an attempt to heal herself. Strong enough that she had likely been medicated at various points in her life. Strong enough that now, in her late twenties or early thirties, she wore the finely honed look of someone for whom stress was a constant companion.
Yet she was also strong enough to have survived this long, sane and able to function even believing something inside her was wrong, and that said a lot about her character.
So she was strong, strong enough to handle her abilities if she only knew how to do that. And she was here. Fate had brought her here, now. Brought her to The Lodge, this particular place, at this particular time.
Even more, she had come up to the observation tower at the crack of dawn, her own muttered words an indication that she hadn’t even been sure why she was climbing the stairs rather than seeking out a far more likely place to find coffee.
“Gotta be a reason,” Quentin heard himself murmur. “There are no coincidences. And some things have to happen just the way they happen.”
It wasn’t what he’d come here to do, help a troubled psychic. But Quentin, though not a complete fatalist, had been convinced for some time that certain encounters and events in one’s life were mapped out in advance, predetermined and virtually set in stone. Crossroads, intersections where key decisions or choices had to be made.