by Kay Hooper
“Yeah. And a good fit for Jamie. Somebody like that might have been a longtime partner. Someone who wasn't just submissive but really trusted Jamie. It could help explain the lack of defensive wounds.”
“That's what I thought.”
Still frowning, Isabel said, “I wish we could find that damned box of photos.”
“We can't even check for more safe-deposit boxes in the other banks in the area until tomorrow morning.”
“I know, I know. I just think it's important. We need to see what's in that box.”
“Agreed.” Very deliberately, Rafe took a chair on the side of the table where she was sitting. “On another subject . . .”
Her frown vanished, and she smiled. “Where the hell am I, and how do I get to Detroit?”
He smiled slightly in response. “Are you a Richard Pryor fan, or do you just know that I am?”
“Both.”
“Any more one-liners you want to throw at me?”
“No. I'll be good.”
“Just tell me what's going on, Isabel.”
She closed the autopsy file and set it aside, then drew a breath and let it out slowly. “The short, perfectly truthful version is, I don't know what's going on.”
“And the long version?”
“I'm not picking up anything from anyone. I don't hear any voices. All my extra senses closed up shop last night, and I think it has something to do with you. And I don't know what the hell is going on.”
5:10 PM
Mallory hung up the phone and rubbed the back of her neck as she looked at Hollis, who was perched on the corner of her desk. “They'll get back to us once they've interviewed Hope Tessneer's family and friends. But just from the information they already had on her bank accounts, it looks like she'd been paying for something about twice a month for the last year or so. Checks made out to cash, and cashed by her.”
“For how much?”
“Always the same amount. Fifteen hundred.”
Hollis raised her eyebrows. “I guess Jamie's services didn't come cheap.”
“I guess not. If we're right about all this, that's an extra three grand in undeclared cash Jamie was pulling in per month—and from just one client. Who knows how many regulars she had?”
“Where the hell did she hide all that money?”
“There has to be another bank. No unexplained deposits show up in any of the accounts she kept at two banks here in Hastings. Her salary, declared income from real estate and other investments—all documented, everything on the up-and-up. The public part of her life was squeaky clean.”
“And the secret part was buried deep.”
“I'll say. Buried deep and probably under an alias, at least financially; it's obvious she's been hiding at least some of her financial dealings for a long time, maybe years. Hell, her other bank or banks could be out of state. Or out of the country.”
“If so, we may never find them. We've got people set to start checking out all the other area banks tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah. With pictures of Jamie and the information that she could have been disguised and using an alias.”
“And it seemed like such a nice little town,” Hollis said.
Mallory leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “I always thought so.”
“You grew up here, I think you said.”
“Yeah. Well, from the time I was about thirteen. Both my parents and a brother still live in the area. I thought about leaving when I was in college, but . . . I like it here. Or did. Never knew how many people kept nasty secrets until I became a cop.”
“It's been an eye-opener for me too,” Hollis confessed. “Still, this sort of thing has got to be unusual for small towns. I mean, a dominatrix practicing her . . . art . . . for paying clients, while also working as a top real-estate agent?”
“If it's not unusual, I'm moving.”
“I don't blame you a bit for that.”
“You know, she picked a good public job to hide a private second one,” Mallory mused. “Real-estate agents often keep erratic hours, so nobody would question if she wasn't in the office at any given time. She could probably meet clients day or night, accommodate their schedules easily.”
“And since she was the dominant,” Hollis said, “she could probably take on as many clients as her energy allowed. No need to take a day or week off now and again to allow those ugly bruises and burns to heal. Or whatever else there might be. She'd be the one dealing out the punishment. Jesus.”
Hearing the distaste in the other woman's voice, Mallory grimaced in agreement. “A very twisted way to find pleasure, if you ask me.”
Ginny joined them in time to get the gist of the conversation, saying, “The things people get up to behind closed doors. We've found Rose Helton.”
“Alive and well, I gather?” Mallory said.
“Definitely alive. I'd say pissed rather than well. When I told her that her husband was sleeping it off in a cell after having waved his gun around at the chief and two federal agents, she said she hoped the judge would throw away the key.”
“Where is she?” Hollis asked.
“In Charleston, with a college friend.”
“She went to college?” Mallory asked in surprise. “And still married Tim Helton?”
Pronouncing the words carefully, Ginny said, “She said it had been a cosmic karmic mistake. And that she'd already filed for divorce and wasn't coming back here. And, oh, by the way, in case we hadn't found it, there was also a still in an old shed in the back pasture.”
“We found it,” Hollis murmured.
“Everybody said they were so happy.” Mallory shook her head. “Christ, you really don't know about people.”
Hollis said, “Well, anyway, we can cross her off the missing list.”
“One less to worry about,” Ginny agreed.
“How's the rest of the list coming?” Mallory asked her.
“No change. No sign of Cheryl Bayne. Plus, we still have several women missing in the general area, and nothing new on Kate Murphy.” Ginny sighed, clearly weary. “It's like she disappeared into thin air. She fits right in with the other victims too.”
“But not Cheryl Bayne.”
Hollis said, “I think Isabel's probably right about Cheryl. If the killer got her, it wasn't specifically because she was—is—a reporter, but because she somehow got too close. Or he was afraid she had. And if so, it's only going to get more difficult to even try to predict what he might do next.”
“Except kill,” Mallory offered wryly.
It was Hollis's turn to rub the back of her neck. “And there's something else. Isabel's the profiler, but I've got to say, if Kate Murphy is a victim, why haven't we found her? So far, the rule's been that if he kills them, he does it quick and leaves them out in the open where they're easily found. Assuming he has killed again, or that he has Kate Murphy, why would he change his M.O. now?”
“Our patrols are checking out every highway rest stop,” Ginny said. “Most of them two or three times a day.”
“Maybe we've spooked him,” Mallory suggested. “He could be killing and leaving the bodies in places we aren't keeping under observation.”
Hollis glanced toward the closed door of the conference room. “Maybe it's time we discussed that possibility.”
Mallory didn't move. “Rafe had a sort of determined look on his face when he closed the door. I'm not so sure I want to be the one to disturb them.”
Hollis continued to look at the door intently, focusing, tentatively trying out the spider sense. After a long moment, she said, “Um . . . let's give them a few more minutes.”
“You're serious?” Rafe leaned forward and touched her hand, not even reacting now to the spark.
Isabel looked down at their hands for a moment, then back at his face. “Entirely serious. For the first time in more than fourteen years, there's silence in my head.”
“That's what's been wrong all day.”
“That's it,” she said, u
nsurprised that he had noticed. “The question is: why?”
They both looked down at their touching hands, and Rafe said, “Frontier territory, huh?”
“Yeah. Scary, isn't it?”
“Today, looking at the wrong end of a gun being waved around by a paranoid drunk, was scary. This? This is just a very interesting turn my life has taken.”
“You're a very unusual man,” she said.
“Which is probably a good thing,” he said, “considering that you're a very unusual woman.”
There was a part of Isabel that wanted to shy away, to pretend he hadn't said that or that she hadn't understood what he meant. But Isabel didn't let herself shy away, or draw away, or back away. Whatever this was, it was something she had to deal with.
“Rafe, do you realize what this could mean?”
“Static electricity is more important than I thought it was?”
“Electromagnetic energy. And, no, not that.”
“Then I don't have a clue what this could mean. Or even what this is.”
“Hollis and I have a theory.”
“Which is?”
“The theory is, my abilities are still with me, it's just that now there's something standing between me and the great wide world out there.”
“You're not saying—”
“We think it might be you.”
“You are saying.” He frowned at her. “Isabel, how could it be me? I'm not psychic. I wouldn't even know how to be psychic.”
“We think that might be the problem.”
Rafe waited, brows raised.
“When a latent first becomes a functional psychic, there's an adjustment period. The psychic isn't in control of his or her abilities from the get-go. I mean—look at Hollis. She's been a medium for months and still can't open and close that door at will. It takes concentration, and focus, and practice. A lot of practice.”
“I'm not psychic.” He said it with more wariness than uncertainty.
“Your grandmother was.”
“So?”
“So sometimes it runs in families. Your chances of being a latent psychic are much higher than average.”
“I still don't—”
“Look. There was a connection between us from the beginning. Call it an attraction, a sense of understanding, simpatico, whatever. It was there. We both felt it.”
“I felt that, yes.”
“We feel it now,” she said, admitting it.
Rafe nodded immediately. “We feel it now.”
“And there's the sparking thing. I told you that was something new for me.”
“Electromagnetic energy fields. Basic science.”
“Yeah, but the way those fields were reacting to each other and the strength of that reaction was something different. Something that might have affected my abilities.”
“Okay. But—”
“Rafe. There was this connection, this . . . conduit between you and me. Maybe the energy opened it, or maybe . . . Maybe the energy opened it. And then when I told you about what had happened to me, you reached out. Through the conduit. You wanted the pain to go away. And it did.”
Rafe spoke very carefully. “How could I have done anything to . . . put your abilities in a box?”
“Actually, that's a very good description,” she noted.
“Isabel.”
“Okay. One of the things we've discovered is that the subconscious is often more in control of our abilities than the conscious mind is, especially in a newly functional psychic. One theory is that it's because these are very old abilities—not new ones. They were born out of instinct, when primitive humans needed every possible edge just to survive.”
“Makes sense,” Rafe said.
“Yes, it does. And if you subscribe to that theory, it also makes sense that our subconscious minds—the deeply buried, primitive id—would not only be able to master psychic abilities but would do so immediately and skillfully. To that part of us, being psychic would be perfectly natural.”
“My id put your abilities in a box?”
Thoughtfully, Isabel said, “Has it occurred to you that we have very strange conversations?”
“Constantly. Answer my question.”
“Yes. More or less. Rafe, your nature is very protective, and even though you like and respect strong women and are perfectly able to work alongside us on equal terms, deep down inside, you will always want to protect anyone you . . . care about. That is your instinctive response.”
“Anyone I care about.”
“Yes. And, obviously, the more you care, the more . . . passionate . . . your feelings are, the stronger your protective instincts will be.”
His mouth twisted slightly. “Want to stop tiptoeing around that part of it and just say it?”
“Do I have to?”
“We might as well get it out into the open. This is happening because I'm falling in love with you.”
Isabel had to clear her throat before she could say, “With or without my extra senses, you keep surprising me. That is very disconcerting.”
“What would you have said? That I had a crush on you?”
“Well . . .”
Dryly, he said, “We're talking about my feelings here, Isabel, not yours. I am not trying to corner you, not even asking how you feel about me. So you can stop backpedaling.”
“I was not—”
“But I'm guessing honesty on my part is important right now, since I may be—unconsciously—affecting your abilities. Yes or no?”
She cleared her throat again. “Yes. We think so.”
“Okay. So despite the reasonable and logical certainty of my conscious mind that you can take care of yourself, and today's ample demonstration that you can also take care of me if the occasion demands, my subconscious thinks you need a shield.”
“Apparently.”
“And gave you one.”
“That's the theory.”
“How?”
“That part's a little fuzzy.”
“Meaning?”
“We haven't got a clue.”
“Shit.”
Isabel had to laugh at his expression, even if the sound held virtually no humor. “Frontier territory, remember? We don't know how it happened, I don't know how it happened, but it's the only thing that makes sense. I'll tell you now, if we both survive this, Bishop is going to want to study us. Because as far as I know, this has never happened before.”
“Never mind Bishop. What do we do about this? You need your abilities, Isabel. Hell, I need your abilities. If we don't stop this bastard, he'll murder at least three more women. And you're on his list.”
“A fact that makes me far more uneasy today than it did yesterday.”
“Because yesterday you had an edge none of the other women did. You believed you'd see him coming,” Rafe said.
It's time.
He tried to ignore the voice this time, because there were people around. People who'd hear.
Wimp. You really aren't a man, are you? You're worse than a neutered dog, following them around, sniffing at them, unable to do anything else. That's it, isn't it? No balls.
His head hurt. The voice echoed inside, bouncing off his skull until he wanted to pound it against a wall.
You know who they are now. The three that matter. You know them.
Yes, he knew them. He knew all of them.
And you know they'll tell.
“But not yet,” he whispered, fearful of being overheard. “They won't tell yet.”
That agent will. That reporter will. And the other one, she'll tell too.
He didn't say it out loud, because he knew people would hear, but it was the other one that worried him most. The other one wouldn't just tell.
She'd show.
She'd show it all.
Isabel nodded slowly. “Even though twice before in my life I've been blindsided by evil, I believed I'd see it this time. I believed that this time . . . I'd fight it face-to-face. For some reason, I was sur
e even before I got here that that's how it would end.” She hesitated, then said, “I need to do that, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
Isabel was very much afraid he did know. Almost unconsciously, she drew her hand away from his and leaned back a bit, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “So we need to figure out how to undo this,” she said. “How to take away the box, or at least punch a hole or two in it so I can reach out and use my abilities.”
After a moment, Rafe leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his middle. “Whether you're right about it or not, the only thing I know about psychic abilities is what you and Hollis have told me. So all I can contribute is willingness to try . . . whatever you think I should try.”
She nodded, but said, “Before we try anything, we need to be sure. Sure that psychic ability has been triggered in you and you're a functional psychic.”
“I'm beginning to have fewer doubts about that.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Because as soon as we stopped touching, your voice became a little muffled.”
“As if there's . . . something between us.”
Rafe nodded.
“Psychic cotton wool,” Isabel said. “That's what Hollis called it.”
He looked at her in silence for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “Brave new world. Not something I expected to be part of.”
“No. Me either.” Before he could say anything to that, she added, “Anyway, we need to know for sure.”
“How can we find out?”
Very casually, Isabel said, “It just so happens that there's a telepath in town. A telepath with the ability to recognize another psychic at least eighty percent of the time. That's the highest percentage we've ever found.”
“A telepath,” Rafe said. “SCU?”
“Yes.”
“Undercover, I gather.”
“Bishop often sends in a secondary agent or team to work behind the scenes whenever possible. We've found it a very effective method of operation.” Her tone was a little wary now, and she watched him uncertainly.
“Waiting for me to blow my stack?” he asked.
“Well, law-enforcement officials we work with tend to get a little upset when they find out they've been left out of the loop. Even for a very good reason. So, let's just say it wouldn't surprise me if you did.”