by Kay Hooper
Grim, he said, “You’re talking about Zarina.”
“I’m talking about Samantha Burke.”
“Same difference,” he snorted.
Jaylene shook her head. “No, there is a difference, and that’s what you’ve got to get into your head. Zarina is a carnival seer and mystic, who takes money to tell fortunes. It’s how she makes her living, and it’s mostly theater, drama. Give the customers what they expect. Offer them a show. She sits in a booth draped in exotic silks and satins and wears a ridiculous turban while she peers at palms and into her crystal ball. That’s Zarina. But Samantha Burke is a genuine, gifted psychic.”
“I don’t believe in that shit.”
“I’m not asking you to believe, Wyatt. I’m just asking you to accept the fact—the fact—that there are things beyond your and my understanding, things science will undoubtedly be able to explain one day. Accept the fact that Samantha Burke may well be one of those things. And accept the fact that she will be able to help us. If you let her try.”
After a moment, he said, “You sound very sure of that.”
“I am,” she said. “Absolutely positive.”
“Because she helped you and Luke before? Helped resolve another investigation?”
“Yes. And because I know Sam. She’ll do everything in her power to help us.”
“You, maybe. I doubt she’ll be too eager to help me.”
“She likes Lindsay. And besides that, she has a strong sense of responsibility. She’ll help.”
“How?”
“Let’s go see,” Jaylene said.
“You mean he’s a natural profiler,” Lucas said.
“I doubt he has a degree in psychology so, yeah, probably self-taught. God knows there are plenty of books on the subject now, never mind the Internet. Maybe he got interested in the art and science of profiling—beginning when you entered the picture.”
“You’re giving me too much credit for this.”
“Or blame?” she murmured, then shook her head. “You didn’t create this monster. If he wasn’t playing this game with you, he’d be playing some other game in which people died. It’s his thing. Killing. Playing with people’s lives. But I’m willing to bet that if you ever get the chance to interview him, he’ll tell you that he decided to play this particular game when he saw you on TV or read about you in the newspapers and realized that you were so good at finding people—and he was so good at losing them.”
“Christ,” Lucas said.
Samantha shrugged, then turned her head to study the cruiser Lindsay had driven. “It’s just a theory, mind you. An uneducated shot in the dark.”
“It was never about education,” he said.
“I know. It was about a purple turban.” Her mouth twisted a little, but she kept her gaze on the car. “It was about . . . credibility.”
“We walk a fine line, Sam. Without credibility, we wouldn’t be allowed to do this work. And it’s important work. It’s necessary work.”
“I also know that.”
“Then stop blaming Bishop for making the decision he had to make.”
“I don’t blame Bishop. I never blamed him.” She took a step closer to the car, adding almost absently, “I blame you.”
“What? Sam—”
“You took the easy way out, Luke. You let Bishop clean up the mess you left behind. And you moved on, telling yourself it was all for the best.”
“That isn’t true.”
“No?” She turned her head and looked at him. “My mistake.”
“Sam—”
“Never mind, Luke. It hardly matters now, does it?” She returned her attention to the police cruiser. “This is the car Lindsay usually drove, right?”
Lucas wanted to refuse the change of subject, but the ticking clock in his head as well as the proximity of the deputies guarding the car told him this wasn’t the time or the place. So he merely said, “Yeah, it was her assigned car.”
Samantha circled the car warily, hoping her reluctance didn’t show but very afraid Luke saw it. Chances were, she wouldn’t get anything when she touched the car, sat in it; most of the time she went through life touching things without feeling anything except the physical sensation of them, just like any normal person.
Most of the time.
But emotionally charged situations, she had learned, tended to increase the frequency and intensity of her visions. Luke would say that the strong emotions altered the electromagnetic fields around them, bringing those fields and her own brain into sync—and opening the door for the visions.
She wasn’t much interested in the science, established or speculative, behind her abilities. She never had been. Understanding how and why they worked didn’t change the fact of them. All she knew for certain was that the visions that had so affected and shaped her life were real and painful, always a burden she couldn’t escape, and sometimes terrifying.
She wondered if Luke even realized that.
“We have no leads, Sam,” he said, watching her. “No evidence. No hint of who this bastard is or where he might be holding Lindsay. We need something. Anything. Just a place to start.”
Stalling, she said, “You still don’t feel anything?”
“No. Either I can’t connect with her or else she’s drugged or unconscious.”
“Or already dead.”
His jaw tightened. “Unless he’s changed his M.O., she isn’t dead. He always waits for the ransom to be delivered.”
“So far.”
“Yeah. So far. No matter what, unless I can get closer to her I may not feel anything even if she does.”
“You mean closer physically?”
“Distance seems to make a difference. So do other things. How well I know them or can get to know them. Some idea of how they react to stress and trauma. Even a direction, an area. I need something to focus on, Sam.”
“And if I can’t give you that?”
“I don’t believe traditional police work will get us close to Lindsay by tomorrow afternoon.”
“But no pressure?”
For the first time, he smiled, crooked though it was. “Sorry. I never was much good at sugarcoating the truth.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
Lucas decided not to comment on that. “Please. See if you can get anything from the car.”
Mentally bracing herself, for all the good it wouldn’t do, Samantha reached out for the driver’s side door handle. She felt something the instant she touched it, a familiar sort of inner quiver that was impossible to describe, but didn’t pause; she opened the door and slid behind the wheel.
Samantha had been told more than once that her visions were unnerving for onlookers. Not because they saw what she saw, of course, but because they saw her.
Apparently, it was quite a show.
All she saw, however, was the black curtain that swept over her, always the first sign. Blackness, thick as tar. Then the abrupt, muffling silence. She felt the wheel beneath her hands as she gripped it, then even the sense of touch was gone.
The chilling sensation that enveloped her was one Samantha had often thought of as limbo. She was suspended, weightless and even formless, in some void that felt emptier than anything most people could imagine.
Even she could never remember just how horribly empty it felt until she was in it.
And the only way out when a vision pulled her in this deep was to wait, grimly, for the glimpse into another life, another time, another place. Wait while her brain tuned in the right frequency and the sounds and images began playing before her mind’s eye like some strange movie.
Flickering images at first. Echoing sounds and voices. Everything distorted until it, finally, snapped into place.
. . . understand.
. . . you understand.
. . . personal, you understand.
“It’s nothing personal, you understand.”
Lindsay was still a bit groggy from the drugs, but she knew a lie when she heard one. “I
t’s very personal,” she murmured, instinctively stalling for time even as she tried to hear something in that cool, conversational voice that might help her to understand her captor.
A chink in his armor, that’s all she asked for. A chink she could work on, widen. A vulnerability she could exploit.
“Not at all. At least, not where you’re concerned.”
“I’m a pawn,” she said, regretting it the instant the words were out of her mouth.
“A pawn?” He sounded interested. “A chess game. I wonder who put that image into your head. Lucas?”
Lindsay was silent. She was in a chair now, her wrists still bound and the bag over her head keeping her in darkness. Her captor was somewhere behind her.
“So he’s at least figured out it’s a game, has he?”
“You know it’s only a matter of time before you’re caught.” She kept her voice steady, concentrated hard to damp down the terror crawling deep inside her, so she could think clearly enough not to give away any knowledge that might help her captor. “Especially now. Kidnappers who stick around too long paint themselves in neon.”
“Oh, I imagine I’m safe enough for the time being.” His tone became relaxed, almost chatty. “I have no connection to Golden, you see. No connection to any of you.”
“So we’re just random victims, huh?”
“Definitely not. No, you were chosen with care, all of you. Each of my guests has been an important element of the game.”
“I’m sure that was a great comfort to them.”
He laughed. Actually laughed in amusement.
And it didn’t give Lindsay even a tinge of hope.
“It’s good that you have a sense of humor,” he told her. “Humor is a great help in getting through life.”
“And through death?”
“You’ll find out before I will,” he said cheerfully.
5
Santa Fe, New Mexico
“A place this beautiful,” Special Agent Tony Harte said, “should not have a murderess living here.”
“You won’t get an argument,” Bishop said.
“How sure are we that she is living here?”
“Reasonably. The police chief is getting the warrant now.”
“So we’ll be closing up shop?”
“If we’re right about her. And if there are no problems in arresting her.”
“Should I pack?”
“Did you even unpack?”
“Some of us aren’t as good at living out of a suitcase as you are,” Tony pointed out.
“Wait until we get word from the chief.” Bishop looked up from his computer with a slight frown. “What?”
“Now, see, that isn’t supposed to happen. You’re a touch telepath, not an open telepath.”
“And your face is an open book, never mind that overly casual tone. What’s up?”
Tony straddled a chair and faced Bishop across the makeshift conference table in their hotel room. “Nothing good. I just got a tip from a pal back East. He’s a journalist. A friend of his is covering the story in North Carolina.”
Bishop didn’t have to ask which story. “And?”
“The news of a serial kidnapper is about to break.”
“Shit.”
“It gets worse, boss.”
“What else?”
“Samantha Burke.”
After a moment, Bishop leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Luke didn’t mention her when he reported in yesterday.”
“Probably not so surprising.”
“No. Not so much.”
“Well, what he should have told you is that it seems the sheriff there got all nasty and suspicious of her, so she voluntarily put herself under house arrest in his jail to prove she wasn’t a kidnapper.”
“Thus alerting the media to the fact that another kidnapping was expected.”
“Yep. And confirming that prediction when Detective Graham was taken earlier today.” Tony frowned. “So Samantha knew the guy would hit again, and there in Golden. He’s been on the move all these months, and now he’s staying put? Why?”
Bishop shook his head, frowning.
Tony eyed him, then said, “My pal says the bit about a carnival psychic and her apparently accurate prediction is too good to pass up. It’s only a matter of time before images of Zarina in her turban appear on the six o’clock news.”
“Naturally. Aside from being colorful, there’s also the tempting evidence that future events can be predicted. A lot of people want to believe that.”
“Speaking of which, have Luke and Jay confided in the sheriff?”
Shaking his head again, Bishop replied, “They felt he wouldn’t be open to the idea of psychic investigators.”
“So what happens if Luke’s able to connect to the victim? It’s not exactly something that would go unnoticed.”
“They’ll have to wing it. Tell the sheriff only as much as he seems able to accept. He may be more open to it as time goes on. Samantha’s prediction of another kidnapping may have at least set the stage.”
“Looking for the positive?”
“What choice do I have?”
A little surprised, Tony said, “I seem to recall that the last time Samantha entered the picture, you were a lot more concerned with the credibility issue.”
“She’s not connected with the unit,” Bishop pointed out.
“She wasn’t then. Or is there something I don’t know about that?”
“There were . . . possibilities then. That she might join the unit.”
“Why didn’t she? I mean, it’s not as if we have too many seers on the payroll—and if I remember correctly, she’s an exceptionally powerful one.”
Bishop nodded, but said, “We hadn’t built much of a reputation or success record at that point. And we had enemies who would have been quite pleased if the SCU had failed in any sense of the word. The unit was too new then to take the risk of accepting a carnival mystic.”
“One mention of a carnival seer on the six o’clock news and we’d be finished?”
“Something like that.”
“And now?”
“And now . . . the situation may have changed, at least as far as the unit’s concerned. Maybe we could stand up to that purple turban now. But it may be a moot point where Samantha is concerned.”
“Because she’s bitter?”
Bishop shrugged. “It could have been better handled.”
“What about her and Luke?”
“What about them?”
“Hey, remember who you’re talking to, boss? I may not read minds very well, but I’m dandy at picking up emotional vibes—and there were plenty between those two.”
“You’d have to ask them about that.”
Wryly, Tony said, “The only thing that comforts me about a response like that one is the knowledge that you probably guard my secrets as well as you do everyone else’s.”
Bishop smiled faintly. “We still have work to do here, Tony.”
“So I should shut up and get to it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Tony said politely, getting to his feet. Then he paused. “We just wait and see what happens in North Carolina, then?”
“It’s Luke’s case. He and Jaylene are calling the shots, and neither of them has asked for help.”
“Do you expect them to?”
“No. Not unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Unless things get a lot worse.”
“You have something specific in mind?”
“No.”
Tony sighed as he turned away. “You’re a lousy liar, boss.” But he didn’t ask Bishop to explain what he knew or didn’t know. Because it would have been useless, and because Tony wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know what the worst might be.
Samantha was aware of being in a vision, as she was always aware, but this one was different. Try as she might, she couldn’t turn her head and look around the room in which Lindsay G
raham was held captive. It was as though she were a camera fixed on Lindsay’s seated, hooded self, on the spotlight illumination that cast everything around the captive woman into deep shadow.
Sam could hear his voice, hear Lindsay’s. Hear, somewhere, a faucet dripping. The hum of the fluorescent lights. And she knew what Lindsay was thinking, feeling.
Which was new and more than a little unsettling.
So was the deep cold she felt, a chill so intense it was as if she’d been dropped into a freezer. The sensation was so powerful and her response so visceral that she wondered how Lindsay and her captor couldn’t hear her teeth chattering.
“If I’m going to die,” Lindsay was saying steadily, “then why not get it over with?”
“I don’t have the ransom yet, of course. The good sheriff could demand to see proof of you alive before he pays up.”
Samantha knew that Lindsay was thinking about the investigators’ conclusion that this wasn’t about money, and she felt immensely relieved when the detective didn’t mention that.
Instead, Lindsay said, “Okay, then why do I have to die? Why did any of your victims have to die? The ransom was always paid. I certainly can’t identify you, and if a cop can’t it’s not likely any of the others could have.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You just like killing, is that it?”
“Ah, Lindsay, you just don’t get it. I don’t kill—”
Samantha opened her eyes with a gasp, so disoriented that for a long moment she had no idea what had happened. Then she realized she was looking at Lindsay’s cruiser, the driver’s door open, from a distance of several feet. And from ground level.
“What the hell?” she murmured huskily.
“Take it easy,” Lucas said. “Don’t try to move for a minute.”
Ignoring that advice, Samantha turned her head to look up at him, realizing only then that she was sitting on the pavement and that he, kneeling half behind her, was supporting her. Baffled, she looked down to see that he was holding both her hands, his palms covering hers.
“How did I get out of the car?” It was the only specific thing she could think of to ask.