Sense of Evil

by Kay Hooper

  “And maybe she noticed him,” Rafe said.

  “Maybe. It's just a theory, but . . . it might not be such a bad idea to have your people keep an eye on Emily, at least when she's out of the house.”

  “Done. I'll assign a patrol. Plainclothes or uniformed?”

  Isabel debated silently for a moment. “Let's not try to be subtle. Uniformed. Tell them to be casual but stay alert. If nothing else, focusing on the family member of a victim may lead the killer to think we're on the wrong track.”

  “Or on the right one,” Mallory murmured.

  “If he is after her, yeah. And, if so, a police escort may cause him to think twice. Worth the risk, I think.”

  Rafe nodded. “I agree. I'll assign the patrol on our way out and then go with you to check out Jamie's apartment. Mal, Hollis is at Tricia Kane's office; why don't you go over Jamie's office one more time? Just to make sure.”

  “Her boss is already pissed that we've taped the door to her office so none of his other agents can use it. Can I release it to him if I don't find anything this time?”

  “Yeah, might as well. Unless the FBI has an objection?”

  “Nope.” Isabel shook her head. “But if you find anything at all that seems out of place to you, bring it back here.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Rafe watched as Isabel opened her briefcase and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen. She swallowed several pills with the last of her coffee, then added cheerfully, “I'm ready when you are.”

  “Headache?”

  “Usually,” she confirmed, still cheerful. “Shall we?”

  “It's getting late,” Caleb Powell said.

  Hollis looked up from her position behind what had been Tricia Kane's desk and nodded. “Yeah. I do appreciate you pretty much shutting down the office for a couple of hours today so I could go through her desk.”

  “Not a problem. I haven't felt much like working this week anyway. Find anything?”

  “Nothing useful, as far as I can tell.” Hollis pressed slender fingers to her closed eyes briefly in what he was beginning to recognize as a characteristic gesture, then studied the small pile of items on the neat blotter.

  “Nothing new, I'd say,” Caleb observed, wondering if she was as tired as she seemed. Telling himself he shouldn't take advantage.

  Hollis agreed with a nod. “The police have already photocopied and gone through every page of the day planner: everything in it is purely work related. What few personal effects she kept in the desk are the usual, innocuous sort of thing any woman would keep at work. Extra compact and lipstick, small bottle of perfume, emery board and nail clippers, a ripped-in-half photo of the ex-boyfriend she clearly wasn't quite ready to throw away.”

  Caleb grimaced. “I caught her looking at that once or twice. She said just what you did, that she wasn't quite ready to toss it.”

  “It takes time for some people to let go.”

  He decided not to comment on that. “So there's nothing helpful here in the office.”

  “Nothing I can see.” Hollis rose to her feet. She glanced past Caleb toward the front door and for an instant went still, eyes widening.

  Caleb looked back over his shoulder, then at her. His first, instinctive reading of her posture and expression was that she had received a shock but was almost immediately back in control of whatever emotions that shock had caused.

  “What?” he asked.

  She blinked, her gaze returning to him. “Hmm? Nothing. It's nothing. Listen, Mr. Powell, confidentially, the focus of the investigation is going to shift back to the first victim. We believe something about that victim or that murder is most likely to help us identify the killer.”

  He thought she was a little pale, but what she'd told him pushed that awareness out of his mind. “So Tricia's murder goes on the back burner.”

  Gravely, Hollis said, “In the conference room at the police department where we'll work every day, there are bulletin boards sectioned, so far, into thirds. Each third is filled with photos and information on each victim. Time lines of the last weeks of their lives. Habits, haunts, events that might or might not have been important. Every day, we look at those boards. Every day, we look at the pictures of those women. And every day, we'll discuss their lives and the people who knew them and try to figure out who killed them. Every day.”

  Caleb drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry. It's just that . . . she was my friend.”

  “I know. I'm sorry.” Her blue eyes gazed past him for another moment, briefly. “Just know that nobody is going to forget Tricia. And that we'll get her killer.”

  “You seem so certain of that.”

  Hollis looked faintly surprised. “We won't give up until we do get him. It's only a matter of time, Mr. Powell.”

  “Caleb,” he said, “please. And thank you for your efforts, Agent Templeton.”

  She smiled wryly. “Hollis. Especially since I'm not a full agent yet. Special Investigator is a title the SCU gives its members who lack a background in law or law enforcement. I've only been with the unit a few months.”

  “But you're a trained investigator?”

  “Recently trained, yeah. In my . . . previous life . . . I did something else.” Hollis came out from behind the desk, adding in a slightly preoccupied tone, “My partner, on the other hand, has a solid background in law and law enforcement, as well as years of experience, so you don't have to worry that the Bureau sent two rookies down here.”

  “I wasn't worried, actually.” Realizing she was about to leave, and reluctant to let her go, he said quickly, “I remember you saying something about being an artist.”

  “Used to be.”

  “Used to be? Does a creative person ever stop being creative?”

  For the first time, Hollis was clearly uncomfortable. “Sometimes things happen that change your whole life. I—uh—need to get back to the police station. Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr.—Caleb. I'll be in touch.”

  “I'll be here.”

  “Thanks again. Bye.”

  He didn't try to stop her, but for several minutes after she left, Caleb gazed after her, frowning, wondering what had happened to change Hollis Templeton's entire life.

  “I know all about evil, Mr. Powell, believe me. I met it up close and personal.”

  He hadn't thought she'd been speaking literally.

  Now he was very much afraid she had been.

  5:00 PM

  When Rafe and Isabel were in one of the department Jeeps and on their way to Jamie Brower's apartment, he said, “I notice you haven't suggested that Hollis visit any of the crime scenes.”

  “Since what happened earlier, you mean?” Isabel shrugged. “You've obviously also noticed Hollis is a bit . . . fragile.”

  “It's a little hard to miss.”

  “She has a lot of potential. But becoming a medium cost her a trip to hell you wouldn't believe, and she hasn't completely dealt with that yet.

  “But despite being afraid, despite her not reaching out, not trying to make contact—she did. Which is an indication of just how much potential she has.”

  Rafe sent his companion a glance. “You really believe there was a ghost in the room with us?”

  “I believe the spirit of Jamie Brower was there, yes.”

  “But you didn't see her? It?”

  “No, I can't see the dead.” Isabel's voice was utterly matter-of-fact. “Or hear them, for that matter. But I can sometimes feel them near me. The very air in the room changes, maybe because they aren't supposed to be a part of this dimensional plane. You felt it yourself.”

  This time, Rafe kept his eyes on the road. “My ears popped. It happens.”

  “All the time,” she agreed mildly.

  “Look, if Jamie was really there, why didn't she say or do something to help us find her killer?”

  “She was trying. Trying to speak to Hollis, the only one in the room with the ability to hear her. Unfortunately, Hollis isn't ready to listen.”<
br />
  “I don't suppose Jamie could just scribble us a note, huh? X killed me.”

  Isabel answered the question seriously. “So far, none of us has encountered a spirit or noncorporeal force with enough focus and power to physically touch or move objects. Unless they were inside a host, of course. Or controlling one.”

  6

  SHE'LL TELL. You know she'll tell.

  He listened to the voice this time because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed this part of it so much. Watching them. Following. Learning their routines.

  Hunting.

  Like the others. Just like them.

  The voice was right about that. She was just like all the rest. Laughing behind his back. So eager to tell his secrets. He had to stop her before she could do that.

  You've done three. Only three more. And then you can rest. Then you can be.

  “I'm tired,” he murmured, still watching her. “This time, I'm tired.”

  That's because you're changing.

  “I know.” He moved carefully, staying in the shadows as he followed her. This one was tricky; she was aware of her surroundings, watchful. Uneasy. They were all beginning to act that way, he'd noticed. Part of him loved that, that he made them so uneasy.

  But it made things more difficult.

  You can do this. You have to. Or she'll tell. She'll tell them all about you.

  “Yes,” he murmured, easing a little closer despite the risk that she would see him. “I have to. I can't let her tell. I can't let any of them tell.”

  Rafe pulled the Jeep abruptly to the curb and parked. They were still in the downtown area, not even halfway to Jamie's apartment. He continued to stare through the windshield, his rugged face completely unreadable. “A host.”

  Isabel didn't have to be clairvoyant to know he had just about reached the end of his willingness to believe in the paranormal. Or even to accept that it might be possible.

  Or possibly he had simply reached the end of his rope.

  Hard to blame him for that.

  “A host,” he repeated, his deep voice still extremely calm. “You want to explain that?”

  Matching his tone, Isabel replied, “When it's a spirit, the simple truth is that some of them refuse to accept what's happened to them when they die. Whether it's unfinished business or simply an unwillingness to move on, they want to stay here.”

  “I guess that explains haunted houses.” He was trying hard to keep his voice matter-of-fact.

  “Well, only partly. Some houses really do contain the spirit or spirits of people who didn't want to move on. But some of what people call hauntings are just place memories.”

  “Place memories?”

  “Yeah. When people report seeing the same ghost repeat the same actions again and again, that's likely a place memory. A good example is the Roman soldiers so many people have seen marching on their battlefield, endlessly. Or other battlefields, like Gettysburg. We don't believe those poor men keep reenacting the battles that killed them; we believe the places remember what happened there.”

  “How?”

  “We can only theorize. Either because those particular areas have a specific energy of their own or possibly just the ability geographically or topographically to contain energy better than other places do. We believe that the extreme psychic—electromagnetic—energy of such horrific, tragic events literally soaked into the earth at places like that.

  “And sometimes there's a buildup of pressure and those ‘memories' are discharged in the form of energy, like static. If anybody happens to be around, especially a functional or latent psychic, what's seen is what that place remembers. An image of what happened there.”

  “That actually makes a kind of sense,” Rafe said, sounding both reluctant and bemused.

  “Yeah, most of this does, if you consider possible scientific explanations. Which we always do. All based on some form of energy.”

  “So explain this host thing.”

  “Well, like I said, some people who die don't want to be dead. If they're desperate enough, or angry enough, sometimes they're able to muster enough power to . . . find and inhabit a physical host. Another person.”

  “Possession. You're talking about possession?” He was beginning to sound incredulous again.

  Isabel waited until he finally looked at her, then said, “Not in the . . . Hollywood . . . sense of the word. This isn't some pea-soup-spewing demon a priest could exorcise. Often, they aren't even negative, or bad, spirits. They just want to live. It's a case of a stronger mind and spirit overpowering a weaker or otherwise vulnerable one.”

  “You're telling me this has actually happened?”

  “We believe it has, although I can't offer you any proof. Bishop and Miranda actually fought the spirit of an insanely determined serial killer once. Quite a story there.”

  Rafe blinked, but said only, “Who's Miranda?”

  “Sorry. Bishop's wife and partner. Years ago, Miranda touched several mental patients who were being treated for severe schizophrenia. She definitely felt, in each case, that there were two distinct and separate souls fighting for possession of those people. It convinced her. It convinced us, even before we duplicated the experiment and got the same results in three out of the five diagnosed schizophrenic mental patients we tested.”

  “This is a little hard to swallow,” Rafe said finally.

  “I know. Sorry about that.” She might have been apologizing for bumping him in a crowd.

  He stared at her, then pulled the Jeep away from the curb and continued on their way. “So, worst-case scenario in a situation like that, the host goes nuts and ends up in a mental institution being treated for a mental disease he doesn't have.”

  “I can think of worse things that might happen, but, yeah, we do believe that has happened. Theoretically, if the host mind and spirit were really weak, the invading spirit would just take over. You'd have a person who appeared to suddenly develop a whole new personality.” Isabel reflected, then said, “Which, I suppose, could explain teenagers.”

  Rafe didn't smile. “What happens to the host's spirit?”

  “I don't know. We don't know. Withers away, maybe, like an unused limb. Gets booted out and passes on to whatever awaits all of us when we leave this mortal coil.” Isabel sighed. “Frontier territory, remember? We have a lot of theories, Rafe. We have some personal experiences, war stories we can tell. Even a few nonpsychic if not unbiased witnesses to testify to things they've seen and heard. But scientific data to back us up? Not so much. For most of us, we believe because we have to. Because it's us experiencing the paranormal. Hard to deny something when it's part of your everyday life.”

  “And the rest of us have to take it on faith.”

  “Unfortunately. Unless and until you have your own close encounter with the paranormal.”

  “I'd rather not.”

  Isabel's smile twisted a bit. “Yeah. Well, let's hope you get your wish. But don't count on it. Maybe it's just because we psychics are present to pull in and focus the energy, but people around us do tend to experience things they never would have imagined before. Fair warning.”

  “You keep warning me.”

  “I keep trying.”

  It was Rafe's turn to sigh, but all he said was, “You made a distinction earlier between a spirit and a—what did you call it?—a noncorporeal force? What the hell is that supposed to be?”

  “Evil.”

  He waited a moment, then said, “Evil as in . . . ?”

  “As in the force opposing good, the negative to offset the positive. As in the precarious balance of nature, of the universe itself. As in worse than you can imagine, breath smelling like brimstone, glowing red eyes, straight-out-of-a-fiery-hell evil.”

  “You're not serious?”

  When he glanced over at her, he found something in her green eyes older and wiser than any woman's eyes should ever have held. Than any human eyes should ever have held.

  “Didn't you know, Rafe? Hadn't you ev
en considered the possibility? Evil is real. It's a tangible, visible presence when it wants to be. It even has a face. Believe me, I know. I've seen it.”

  Alan had every intention of taking the note to Rafe and the federal agents. Just not right away.

  He wasn't stupid about it, of course. He made a copy and put the original in a clear plastic sleeve to protect it. And then he spent a lot of time staring at the note. The words. Trying to figure out what the author was trying to tell him.

  And trying to decide if the author was the killer.

  Despite his sometimes provocative attitude in print, Alan wasn't a big fan of conspiracy theories, so his natural inclination was to believe that the note had been written by the killer. It was the simplest explanation, and it made sense to him. What didn't make sense was that someone in town knew who the killer was and had done nothing to stop him.

  Unless that someone was very, very afraid.

  And if that was the case . . . how could Alan flush him or her out of hiding?

  It would be such a coup. And stop the killings, of course.

  But how to bring that person, if he or she existed, out of the woodwork?

  Musing over that question, Alan left the original of the note securely locked in his desk, but took the copy with him when he left the office—a bit early—for the day. He didn't go straight home but stopped by the town-hall building, which had become the unofficial hangout for most members of the media.

  There were quite a few hanging around, but most were talking companionably, with the relaxed posture that came of having passed the deadline for the six o'clock news. The pressure was off, at least for most of them and for the moment.

  Dana Earley, the only blond female in the bunch, was also the most obviously tense. Understandably. She was also the only TV reporter still present today, and kept her cameraman close.

  Alan doubted it was because she liked the guy, who was skinny, clearly bored, and appeared to be about seventeen.