by Kay Hooper
“So why're you telling me?”
“I thought you could take it.” She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Was I wrong?”
“I'll let you know when I make up my mind.”
“Fair enough.”
“So I gather you don't normally inform local law enforcement of this?”
“Depends. It's pretty much left up to our judgment. The assigned team, I mean. Bishop says you can't plan some things in advance, and whether or not to spill the beans—and when—is one of them. I've been on assignments where the local cops didn't have a clue, and others where they were convinced, by the time we left, that it was some kind of magic.”
“But it isn't.” He didn't quite make it a question.
“Oh, no. Perfectly human abilities that simply don't happen to be shared by everyone. It's like math.”
“Math?”
“Yeah. I don't get math. Never have. Balancing my checkbook stresses me out like you wouldn't believe. But I always liked science, history, English. Those I was good at. I bet you're good at math.”
“It doesn't stress me out,” he admitted.
“Different strokes. People have strengths and weaknesses, and some have abilities that can look amazing because they're uncommon. There aren't a lot of Mozarts or Einsteins, so people marvel at their abilities. Guy throws a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball and puts it over the plate three out of five pitches, and he's likely to be set for life, because very few people can do what he does. Gifts. Rare, but all perfectly human.”
“And your gift is?”
“Clairvoyance. The faculty of perceiving things or events beyond normal sensory contact. Simply put, I know things. Things I shouldn't be able to know—according to all the laws of conventional science. Facts and other bits of information. Conversations. Thoughts. Events. The past as well as the present.”
“All that?”
“All that. But more often than not it's a random jumble of stuff, like the clutter in an attic. Or like the chatter of voices in the next room: you hear everything but really catch only a word or two, maybe a phrase. That's where practice and training come in, helping make sense of the confusion. Learning to see the important objects in that cluttered attic or isolate that one important voice speaking in the next room.”
“And you use this . . . ability? In investigating crimes, I mean.”
“Yes. The Special Crimes Unit was formed to do just that. For most of us, becoming a part of the unit was the first time in our lives that we didn't feel like freaks.”
Rafe thought that much, at least, made sense. He could understand how people with senses beyond the “normal” five might feel more than a little alienated from society. Having a useful and rewarding job and a place where they were considered entirely normal had probably changed their lives.
Isabel didn't wait for his response, just went on in that slightly absentminded tone. “There's been very little study into the paranormal, really, but we've built on that with our own studies and field experience. We've developed our own definitions and classifications within the SCU, as well as defined degrees of ability and skill. I'm a seventh-degree clairvoyant, which means I have a fair amount of ability and control.”
Rafe watched as she knelt down and touched the ground, no more than an inch or so from where Tricia Kane's blond hair had lain. “Touching the ground helps?” he asked warily.
“Touching things sometimes helps, yeah. Objects, people. It's better when the area is contained, enclosed, but you work with what you've got. The ground is pretty much the only thing left out here, so . . .” She looked up at him and smiled, though her eyes held a slightly abstracted expression. “Not magic. Maybe we're just a lot more connected to this world and to one another than we think.”
It was hot, the way it is now. But barely light. She could smell the honeysuckle. But that's all . . . all she could get about the murder, at least. That and her certain sense of something dark and evil crouching, springing . . . But only that. Isabel wasn't really surprised. This place was wide open, and they were always the toughest.
He watched her intently. “What do you mean?”
He had very dark eyes, she thought. “We leave footprints when we pass. Skin cells, stray hairs. The scent of our cologne lingering in the air. Maybe we leave more than that. Maybe we leave energy. Even our thoughts have energy. Measurable electromagnetic energy. Today's science admits that much.”
“Yeah. And so?”
“Our theory is that psychics are able to tap into electromagnetic fields. The earth has them, every living thing has them, and many objects seem to absorb and hold them. Think of it as a kind of static electricity. Some people get shocked more often than others. I get shocked a lot.”
“Are you getting shocked now?”
Isabel straightened and brushed the dirt off her hand. She was frowning slightly. “It'd be easier if the clairvoyant bits came in neon, but they don't. That cluttered attic. That noisy party in the next room. In the end it's usually just a jumble of information, stuff I could have read or heard or been told.”
Rafe waited for a moment, then said, “Except?”
“Except . . . when the information comes in the form of a vision. That is in neon. Sometimes in blood.”
“Not literally?”
“Afraid so. It's rare for me, but it does happen from time to time. In the case of a murder, it's as if I become the victim. I see or hear—or sometimes feel—what they do. While they're being killed. I'm told it's a bit startling to watch. Don't freak out if it happens, okay?”
“You're telling me you actually bleed?”
“Sometimes. It fades away pretty fast, though. Like I said, don't let it bother you.”
“Don't let it bother me? Cops see blood, Isabel, we tend to freak out. In a controlled, professional manner, of course. We take it as a signal that it's time to do our job.”
Her eyes sharpened abruptly, and she smiled. “Well, if you see blood on me, resist your instincts. Chances are, it'll belong to somebody else.”
“In Hastings, chances are it'll be yours. Unless you want to color your hair for the duration.”
“Wouldn't help. He already knows.”
“Knows what?”
“He's already seen me, Rafe. One of the clairvoyant bits I've picked up. I'm on his A-list.”
3
“GODDAMMIT, YOU TOLD ME being bait for this bastard wasn't the idea.”
“It wasn't the plan. It was always a possibility, of course, but it wasn't the plan.”
“Isabel—”
“Besides, it isn't that clear-cut. I said I was on his A-list, but I'm not next. He gets to know his victims before he kills them, Rafe. He doesn't know me. Not yet. And he won't come after me until he does. Or thinks he does.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”
She didn't hesitate. “To catch this bastard? Yes.”
Rafe took a step toward her. “Have you reported it to your boss? Does he know you're on the A-list?”
“Not yet. I'm scheduled to report in later today. I'll tell him then.”
“Will you?” His doubt was obvious.
Isabel chuckled. “Rafe, our unit is made up of psychics. You don't keep secrets, or withhold vital bits of information, when half the team can read your mind. Very few of us have been able to keep anything important from Bishop no matter how far away we were.”
“Have you?”
Isabel took a last look down at the ground where Tricia Kane had died, then started toward him with a slight gesture to indicate they might as well walk back to his Jeep. “I thought so once. Just after I first joined the unit. I thought I was being very clever. Turned out he'd known all along. He usually does.”
Rafe didn't say anything else until they were in the Jeep and he had turned the air-conditioning on full-blast. “The simplest thing to do,” he said, “is to have you recalled and somebody else sent down here. Somebody who won't draw this bastard's attention.”
“The
simplest thing,” Isabel said, “is not always the smartest thing.”
“I am not going to stand by while you're dangled on a goddamned hook.”
“I told you, I'm not next on his hit parade. But somebody else is. Some woman is walking around in your town right now, Rafe, and a killer is stalking her. My partner and I are up to speed on this investigation. Bishop thought we were the best team to send down here, and his success rate, our success rate as a unit, is over ninety percent. We can help you catch him. Send me back, and the next team has to start from scratch. Do you really want to waste that time, especially when this killer is averaging a victim a week so far?”
“Shit.” He stared at her grimly. “I'm taking a hell of a lot on faith here. This psychic stuff.”
“At least you didn't call it bullshit,” she murmured. “That's usually the first reaction.”
Ignoring that, he said, “I'm supposed to be okay with you being on our killer's list because you assure me you aren't next. That we have time while he stalks his next victim and, not incidentally, finds out enough about you to feel that he knows you. So he can kill you.”
“That pretty much sums it up, yeah.”
“Convince me. Convince me that this clairvoyant knowledge you have is genuine. That it's something I can trust.”
“Parlor tricks. It always comes down to parlor tricks.”
“I'm serious, Isabel.”
“I know you are.” She sighed. “You sure you want to do this?”
Suddenly wary again, he asked, “Why wouldn't I be?”
“Because the best way for me to convince you is to open up a connection between us and tell you things about yourself, your life, your past. Things I couldn't possibly know any other way. You might not find that very comfortable. Most people don't.”
“Women are dying, Isabel. I think I can endure a little psychic reading.”
“Okay. But when we speak of this later—and we will—just remember that I tried to warn you. I get bonus points for that.”
“Fine.”
She held out a hand, palm up, and Rafe hesitated only an instant before placing his hand on hers. He nearly jerked away when their flesh touched, because there was a literal, visible spark and a definite, if faint, shock. But her fingers closed over his strongly.
Matter-of-factly, she said, “Well, that's new.”
Rafe wanted to say something about static, but he was busy having another of those strange feelings, just as he'd had when she walked into the press conference, but much, much stronger. That a door had opened and a fresh breeze was blowing through. That everything around him was in sharper focus, more real than it had been before. That something had changed.
And he still didn't know if it was a good change or a bad one.
Isabel didn't go into some kind of trance or even close her eyes. But her eyes did take on that abstracted expression he had noticed before, as if she were listening to some distant sound. Her voice remained calm.
“You have an unusual paperweight on your desk at home, some kind of car part encased in acrylic. You prefer cats over dogs, though you don't have either because of your long working hours. You're allergic to alcohol, which is why you don't drink. You're fascinated by the Internet, by the instant communication of people all over the world. You're a movie buff, especially interested in science fiction and horror.”
Isabel smiled suddenly. “And you wear a particular style of jockey shorts because of a commercial you saw on TV.”
Rafe jerked his hand away. “Jesus,” he muttered. Then, getting back on balance, he added somewhat defensively, “You could have found out any of that. All of it.”
“Even the jockey shorts?”
“Jesus,” he repeated.
She was looking at him steadily, her eyes still faintly abstracted, distant. “Ah, now I understand why the idea of an FBI unit made up of psychics didn't throw you. Your grandmother had what she called ‘the sight.' She knew things before they happened.”
Rafe looked at his hand, which he had been unconsciously rubbing with the other one, then at her. “You aren't touching me,” he noted in a careful tone.
“Yeah, well. Once a connection is made, I tend to pick up stuff from then on.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said, varying the oath somewhat.
“I tried to warn you. Remember, bonus points.”
“I still don't— You could have found out most of that some other way.”
“Maybe. But could I have found out that your grandmother told you on your fifteenth birthday that your destiny was to be a cop? It was just the two of you there at the time, so nobody else knew. You believed it was weird, she was weird, because you hadn't thought of being a cop. The family business was construction. That's what you were going to do, especially as you'd been swinging a hammer since you were twelve.”
Rafe was silent, frowning slightly.
“She also told you . . . there would come a point in your life when you would have to be very, very careful.” Isabel was frowning herself now, head slightly tilted, clearly concentrating. “That there was something important you were meant to do as part of the destiny she saw for you, but it would be dangerous. Deadly dangerous. Something about . . . a storm . . . a woman with green eyes . . . a black-gloved hand reaching . . . and glass shattering.”
He drew a breath. “Vague enough.”
Isabel blinked, and her green eyes cleared. “According to what our seers have told me, visions often come that way, as a series of images. Sometimes they prove to be literal, other times it's all symbolic. The green-eyed woman could be a jealous woman or someone who resents you or someone else. The black-gloved hand a threat. The storm, violence. Like that.”
“Still vague,” he insisted. “Any of that is something a cop deals with regularly.”
“Well, we'll see. Because I have more than a hunch that what your grandmother saw was this point in your life—otherwise I probably wouldn't have picked up her prediction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Patterns are everywhere, Rafe. Events touch other events like a honeycomb, connecting to one another. And seeming coincidences usually aren't. I may pick up some trivial information unrelated to what's going on at present, and not all the stuff I get could even be called hits, but I'm focused on this investigation, this killer—and when that's the case it almost always turns out that most of what I get is relevant to what's going on around me at the time.”
“Want to use a few more qualifiers?”
She smiled at his exasperation, though it was more rueful than amused. “Sorry, but you've got to understand we're in frontier territory here. There aren't a whole lot of absolute certainties. Conventional science pretty much sneers at psychic ability, and those who were brave enough to test and experiment found themselves dealing with an unfortunate commonality among psychics.”
“Which is?”
“Very few of us perform well under laboratory conditions. Nobody really knows why, that's just the way it is.” Isabel shrugged. “Plus, the tests tended to be poorly designed because, to begin with, they didn't know what they were dealing with. How can you effectively measure and analyze something without even knowing how it works? And how do you figure out how it works when you can't make it work within a controlled situation?”
“Somebody must have known, or you wouldn't be here. Would you?”
“The SCU wouldn't exist if Bishop hadn't been highly motivated and exceptionally driven to figure out how to use his own abilities to track and capture a serial killer years ago. Once he was able to do that, he believed other psychics could be trained, that we could learn to use our abilities as investigative tools. And that those tools would give us an edge. We're proving it works. Slowly, carefully—and with setbacks now and then. We're also learning as we go.
“What we've found through sheer trial and error in the field is that our abilities function best when we're focused on something compelling—such as a murder investigation. But that doesn't
mean we can flip a switch and get exactly the piece of information we need. As with everything else in life, we have to work for it. It's still trial and error.”
“So, bottom line, your best guess is that because you picked up what my grandmother told me over twenty years ago it means what she saw has something to do with what's happening in my life today. This investigation.”
“It's a good bet, based on how my abilities have worked so far. Plus, logically this'll probably be the toughest case of your career, assuming you don't move to a big city and deal often with violent killers. And though I can't speak to the specifics of your grandmother's vision—yet—I can tell you it's going to be dangerous as hell tracking and catching this killer.”
Listening to her tone as well as the words, Rafe said, “You picked up something else out there where Tricia Kane was killed, didn't you? What was it?”
She hesitated just long enough to make the internal debate obvious, then said, “What I picked up out there confirmed something I suspected even before I came to Hastings. This town is just his latest hunting ground.”
“He's killed before?”
“In at least two previous locations. Ten years ago, he butchered six women in Florida. And five years ago, six women in Alabama.”
“Blondes?” Rafe asked.
“No. Redheads in Florida. Brunettes in Alabama. We have no idea why.”
“And nobody caught him then.”
“Lots tried. But he hit quick—one victim every week, just like here—and then he vanished. Typical serial killer cases, if there is such a thing, usually drag on months, years, and it takes time to get law enforcement organized once a pattern is even noticed. But this monster hit and vanished before the task forces could even get up and running. And he didn't leave so much as a hair behind to help I.D. him, so they had almost nothing to work with.”
“Then how do you know it's the same killer?”
“The M.O. The profile. The fact that Bishop himself worked on the second set of murders—one of his very few unsuccessful cases.”