Sense of Evil

by Kay Hooper

  Isabel was frowning again. Her head tilted a bit, the frown deepening. Absently, she said, “Yes. Yes, I guess I am. The psychic stuff doesn't throw him at all, and he was more than okay with the rest.”

  “So if you can just deal with these control issues of yours, and always assuming we get this killer before he decides to add you to his blonde collection, maybe the universe really is offering you something special. A man who knows what you've been through, what you are, and doesn't mind all the baggage you have to drag around with you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “At least accept the possibility, Isabel.”

  Isabel blinked at her. “Sure. Yes. I can always accept possibilities.”

  It was Hollis's turn to frown. “Are you thinking about the long-term complications of him being settled here and you at Quantico?”

  “No. I haven't gotten that far. I mean, I haven't really looked past now.”

  Hollis studied her. “So what's bothering you?”

  “It's just . . . I'm tired. Really tired.”

  “I'm not surprised. You need a good night's sleep.”

  Still frowning, Isabel said, “I know I do. I can't remember ever being this tired. So that's probably why, right?”

  “Why what?”

  Softly, Isabel said, “Why I don't hear the voices. At all.”

  12

  Sunday, June 15, 10:30 AM

  GINNY HUNG UP the phone and frowned at the clock on the wall. Three times. Three times she'd tried to call Tim Helton, hoping his wife might have come home and he just hadn't thought to report in.

  It was after ten-thirty; dairy farmers got up at dawn, she knew that much. Even on Sundays. And Tim Helton wasn't a churchgoer. Maybe he was out with his cattle. Except he'd given her his cell-phone number and said he always kept it with him. And a body would think he'd be eager to hear whatever the police might have to say about his missing wife. Unless she'd come home.

  Or unless he knew she wasn't going to.

  Travis wasn't at his desk, so Ginny couldn't ask him, as she usually did, what she should do. This would have to be her call, her decision.

  Surprising herself somewhat, Ginny didn't hesitate. She got to her feet and headed for the closed door of the conference room.

  Rafe shut the folder and shoved it toward the center of the conference table. “Okay, so neither the post nor any forensic evidence gathered at the scene has told us much more than we knew yesterday.”

  Mallory said, “Well, the doc's sure she wasn't bound in any way when she died, and there are absolutely no defensive wounds, so we can reasonably infer she didn't put up a fight.”

  “Yeah,” Rafe said, “but if she was one of Jamie's partners, submissive might have been her natural state.”

  “So she wouldn't necessarily have fought an attacker,” Isabel agreed. “Still, strangling is up close and personal; if somebody was very obviously trying to kill her, the reflexive survival instinct would have kicked in. At the very least, we should have found some skin cells underneath her fingernails. The fact that we didn't lends weight to the idea that she didn't realize what was happening to her until too late.”

  Hollis said, “And our killer uses a knife, he doesn't strangle. So that's another argument for an accidental death at someone's hands, probably Jamie's.”

  Mallory added, “Especially since forensics found bits of that old linoleum floor covering embedded in the vic's knees, which places her in Jamie's playhouse and in a kneeling, possibly submissive position. Which is, at least, more tangible evidence to confirm what we were pretty sure of but couldn't have proven in court—that this woman was one of Jamie's partners.”

  “An unlucky one,” Rafe noted. “According to the info we have on the S&M scene, strangulation to the point of unconsciousness is fairly common. Supposedly intensifies orgasm.”

  “Another thing I don't want that much,” Mallory murmured.

  Rafe nodded a wry agreement, but said, “We'll probably never know why Jamie went too far, if it was anger or just a . . . miscalculation. But we need to I.D. this woman. Notify her family.”

  Isabel said, “A forensic dentist at Quantico is comparing her chart to those we have from women reported missing in the area; we should know in the next hour or so if there's a match.”

  “But we didn't have charts for every woman,” Mallory reminded her. “Either they used dentists we haven't been able to track down, or no dentists. Lots of people are still scared of sitting in that chair.”

  “And none of the missing women had ever been fingerprinted,” Rafe added.

  “Is getting an I.D. even going to help us?” Hollis wondered. “I mean, it's closure for her family, which is great, but what's it going to tell us?”

  “Maybe if she was a regular client of Jamie's,” Isabel said. “We can talk to her relatives and friends, check her bank accounts, hopefully find a diary or journal if we're very lucky. But, yeah, I know what you mean. It's not really likely to put us any closer to the serial killer. Or help us identify and protect the woman he's undoubtedly stalking even as we speak.”

  “And we're running out of time,” Mallory said.

  There was a moment of silence, and then a somewhat timid knock at the door preceded Ginny's entry into the room.

  “Chief, excuse me for interrupting—”

  “You didn't,” Rafe told her. “What's up?”

  “I've been trying to call Tim Helton, just to check if his wife came home, and I can't get an answer. He doesn't go to church and by all accounts almost never leaves the farm. He should be there.”

  “If he's out in his barns—”

  “He gave me his cell number, Chief, and he said he always wears it clipped to his belt. I tried the house number, too, but there was no answer. And just the machine at the dairy number. It's like the place is deserted out there.”

  Isabel said, “I don't much like the sound of that. If this killer is escalating, there's nothing to say he might not have decided to change his M.O. and kill somebody in or near her own home. Or just come back later and take out the husband as well.”

  “What worries me,” Rafe said, “is that Tim Helton is the type to get his gun and go looking himself if he feels the police aren't doing enough to find his wife. The detective I sent out there to talk to him said he was angry and just this side of insulting about our efforts so far.”

  “He has a gun?”

  “He has several, including a couple of shotguns and rifles, and his service pistol. He was in the army.”

  “That's all we need,” Isabel murmured. “A scared and pissed-off guy with a gun—and the training to use it.”

  “No sign of his wife?” Rafe asked Ginny.

  “Not so far. Or any hint from anyone who knew her that she might have gone somewhere on her own. In fact, everybody says the opposite, that she was a homebody and quite happy at the farm.”

  “Solid marriage?” Hollis asked.

  “By all accounts.”

  “No children?”

  “No.”

  Isabel drummed her fingers briefly on the table. “I say we go check it out. There isn't much we can do here for the present, with no new information to go over. And we need to find Tim Helton, make sure he's all right—and not conducting his own manhunt.”

  Rafe nodded and looked at Ginny. “Anything new on any of the other missing women?”

  “Not so far. Still nearly a dozen unaccounted for, if we go back a couple of months and take in the thirty miles or so surrounding Hastings, but only a handful even come close to fitting the profile. The reporter, Cheryl Bayne, is still missing; we tried the dogs, and they lost the trail a block or so from the van.”

  “Where, specifically?” Rafe asked.

  “Near Kate Murphy's store. She's the other woman missing from Hastings. We're drawing blanks everywhere we check in looking for both of them.”

  “Okay, keep at it.”

  As the young officer turned to go, Isabel said, “Ginny? Are you okay?”
>
  “Sure.” She smiled. “Tired, like everybody else, but otherwise okay. Thanks for asking.”

  Isabel held her gaze for a moment, then nodded and smiled, and Ginny left the conference room rather quickly.

  Absently, Rafe said, “You know, Rose Helton doesn't fit the profile in one very obvious and possibly important way.”

  “She's married,” Isabel said. “So far, in all three series of murders, he's only gone after single white females.”

  Slowly, Hollis said, “I wonder what would happen if he found himself interested in a married woman? Would he see the husband as a rival? Would that make the chase—the stalking—even more exciting for him?”

  “Could be.” Isabel rose to her feet.

  Mallory got up with the rest, but said, “Since Kate Murphy and Cheryl Bayne are also still missing, I think they should be up there on the priority list too. If you guys don't mind, I think I'll run through the info we have on them and see if I have some luck in either finding them or at least ruling out a voluntary absence.”

  “Good idea,” Isabel said. “The reporter especially worries me; if he's killing to scare off the media or to make a point, then all bets are off. It would mean he's changed in some fundamental way, and we have no way of knowing how or why.”

  “Or who he could decide to target next,” Hollis added.

  He wished he could stop the voices. The other things, the other changes, he could deal with. So far, at least. But the voices really were driving him mad. It had become harder and harder to shut them out, turn them off. They told him to do things. Bad things.

  Things he'd done before.

  Not that he minded doing the bad things. That was the only time he felt real, felt strong and alive. Felt free. It was just that his head hurt all the time now because of the voices, and he hadn't slept through the night since . . . he couldn't remember when.

  The whole world looked surreal when you couldn't sleep, he'd discovered.

  And blondes were everywhere.

  Tempting, aren't they?

  He ignored the question. The voice.

  They're just asking for it. You know they are.

  “Go away,” he muttered. “I took care of the other one. The one you said nearly found us. Leave me alone now. I'm tired.”

  Look at that one on the corner. If she swung her ass any harder she'd dislocate it.

  “Shut up.”

  Don't forget what they did to you. What they're doing to you. Even now, they're corrupting you.

  “You're lying to me. I know you are.”

  I'm the only one who's telling you the truth.

  “I don't believe you.”

  That's because they've twisted your thinking, those women. Those blondes. They're making you weak.

  “No. I'm strong. I'm stronger than they are.”

  You're a wimp. A useless wimp. You let yourself get distracted.

  “I'm not distracted. She has to be next.”

  The other one's more dangerous. That agent. Isabel. She's different. She sees things. We need her out of the way.

  “I can do her later. This is the one I have to do next.”

  This one can't hurt us.

  “That's what you think.” He watched as she came out of the coffee shop and continued along the sidewalk, an iced mocha in one hand and her list in the other. She always had a list. Always had things to do.

  He wondered idly if she had any idea the last item on today's list was to die.

  11:00 AM

  On their way to the dairy farm, Hollis said, “If Rafe hadn't had to stay at the station a few more minutes to deal with a call, would you still have suggested separate vehicles?”

  “Probably.”

  “Still no voices, huh?”

  “No. I thought getting away from everybody might help, but it didn't.”

  “Was anything different when Rafe was close by?”

  “No. Just silence, same as when he isn't close by. Exactly the way it's been since last night.” Isabel glanced at her partner, mouth twisting slightly. “I'd thought the peace and quiet would be nice. I was wrong. This just feels . . . bad. Not natural. I even miss the damned headache. A part of me has suddenly gone deaf, and I don't know why.”

  “It must have something to do with the sparking thing between you and Rafe, right?”

  “I don't know. As far as I can remember, nothing like this has happened to any psychic. I mean, our abilities can change, but this drastically and suddenly to a reasonably stable and well-established psychic? Not without some . . . trigger. Some cause. It just doesn't make sense.”

  “You still haven't called Bishop?”

  Isabel shook her head. “They're wrapped up in their own investigation out there and don't need a distraction.”

  “You just don't want him to pull you.”

  “Well, yeah, there's that. I don't really think he would, not at this stage, but he worries whenever any of us have problems with our abilities. Unforeseen problems, I mean.”

  Hollis hesitated, then said, “How can you be sure this is an unforeseen problem? I mean, Bishop and Miranda see the future on a fairly regular basis. What if they saw this?”

  Isabel considered it, then shrugged and said wryly, “That is more than possible. It wouldn't be the first time they'd seen something ahead in the road for one of us—and just let us stumble forward blindly. Some things have to happen just the way they happen.”

  “Our mantra.”

  “More or less. You know, I half expected Bishop to call last night, since he always does seem to know whenever something's gone wrong. So maybe this isn't as wrong as I feel like it is. Or maybe he knows and also knows I have to figure out my own way through it.”

  “Are you going to tell Rafe?”

  “Sooner or later I'll have to. Unless he picks up on it himself. Which is also possible.”

  “Yeah, he's very . . . tuned in where you're concerned. I mean, it's obvious. I think he knew before I did in Jamie's playhouse that it was going to be too much for you. He kept watching you.”

  “I know.”

  “You felt that even with all the voices coming at you?”

  “I felt it. Him. He wanted to protect me. To keep me from being hurt.”

  Hollis lifted both eyebrows. “And now you don't hear the voices. You're protected from them. Coincidence? I sort of doubt it.”

  “Rafe isn't psychic. He couldn't have done this.”

  Hollis thought about it, then shook her head. “Maybe not consciously, even if he's a latent. But what if it's a combination of factors?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as his desire to shield you and the way his and your electromagnetic fields react to each other. It really could be pure basic chemistry and physics, at least the beginning of it.”

  Isabel frowned. “Even without a shield of my own, I had the training in how to use one. I know how to reach out, break through a barrier. I know what a shield should be, even if I've never had one. This . . . doesn't feel like a barrier. It's not something I can control.”

  “It's new. Maybe you have to get used to it before you can. Or maybe . . .”

  “. . . it's not mine to control,” Isabel finished.

  “If Rafe is a latent, or was, it could be his to control. You didn't pick up any sense that he might be when you first read him?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing unusual at all?”

  “No. At least . . . He's very strong. And not very easy to read except for surface, trivial things. I didn't get the sense he was blocking me, but at the same time I felt there was a lot of him I just couldn't get at.”

  “Didn't you tell me his grandmother was psychic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then if I remember what I was taught in the training sessions, there's a better than average chance he could be a latent.”

  “In our experience, yes. It often runs in families.”

  “Isn't that the most likely explanation for all this? That he is, or
was, a latent and that the way you two reacted to each other somehow activated it and made him a functional psychic, even if only on an unconscious level?”

  “So far, everything we've seen and experienced tells us that activating a latent ability requires a traumatic event.”

  “Maybe Rafe will add something different to that experience.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You could ask him.”

  “Ask him if he's psychic? Oh, he'll love that.”

  “If he is, and functional, he needs to know. He needs to begin learning how to control what he can do. Especially since he may be shielding you. That urge to protect you may have him wrapping you in psychic cotton wool. A nice respite for you, at least in theory, but we do need your abilities to help us find and catch this killer.”

  “Tell me something I don't know.”

  Hollis pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and studied her partner thoughtfully. “Maybe when you and Rafe connected, you did it in an unusual way, something every bit as direct and potent as actual physical contact—and magnified by sheer power. That sparking thing we all find so fascinating. Maybe it created a link between you.”

  “It didn't create a shield. I've told you, at first it was just a slight and gradual muffling of the voices. It wasn't until last night that the voices suddenly went silent.”

  “It was sudden? You didn't tell me that. Can you remember exactly what was happening when you lost them?”

  Isabel had to think about it, but only for a moment. Slowly, she said, “Actually, it's so clear I don't know why I didn't notice it at the time. Because I was so tired, I suppose. I thought it was that. And the relief.”

  “Relief?”

  “That he didn't draw away. I told him all about my chamber of horrors, and he didn't draw away. In fact, he reached out to me. Physically. And that's when the voices went silent.”

  “Travis, any luck reaching Kate Murphy's sister in California?” Mallory asked.

  Without needing to check the notes on his legal pad, Travis shook his head. “Nada. It's awfully early on a Sunday out there, so you'd think she'd be home, but if so she isn't answering her phone.”

  “Machine or voice mail picking up?”