by Kay Hooper
“He won’t do anything to further endanger Lindsay.”
“No, I won’t,” Metcalf said as he came into the room. He looked a bit haggard, but calm. “What is it you don’t want me to do?”
“Storm these places,” Lucas replied readily. “They need to be checked out, one at a time, but quietly, Wyatt. If we get lucky and find him, we can’t forget he has a hostage he could use to hold us off for a long time. We have to be careful, approach every area with all possible caution so he isn’t alerted. That means we can’t send your deputies searching on their own unless you’re very, very sure they know what they’re doing and will follow their orders to the letter.”
The sheriff considered, then said, “I have, maybe, half a dozen people I’m absolutely sure of. They have the training and experience to do this right, and none of them will panic or jump the gun. They’ll follow orders.”
“We’ve got a lengthy list of possibilities,” Lucas told him. “All of them remote properties with plenty of privacy.”
“Because Zarina says that’s where he’ll be.”
“Because common sense says she’s right. He might have taken advantage of abandoned property somewhere, but it would be risking someone showing up and discovering him, and I don’t believe he’d do that. If he doesn’t have a connection to Golden—and right now, that’s all we’ve got to narrow the search—then chances are good that he leased, rented, or purchased property sometime before Mitchell Callahan was kidnapped and since the victim just before him, two months ago in Georgia.”
Jaylene murmured, “Unless he’s been planning this a lot longer than we know and got the property anything up to a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, hell, don’t even suggest that,” Lucas said, so immediately that it was obvious he’d been thinking along similar lines. “We have to go with the most likely possibility, and the most likely is that he got the property fairly recently, over the summer.”
“We move a lot of property in the summer,” Metcalf noted.
“Which is why the list isn’t a short one.”
Jaylene checked her watch, then listened to yet another rumble of thunder. “It won’t be easy if the weather’s against us, but I say we get started whether it storms or not. We don’t have much daylight left either way—but I don’t think we should wait for dawn.”
The sheriff had brought in a large county map, which Lucas unrolled on the conference table, and all three bent over it. Within forty-five minutes, they had all the properties on their list marked in red on the map.
“All over Clayton County,” Metcalf said with a sigh. “And some of these places are remote as hell. Even with all the luck we can muster, we’ll be hard-pressed to check out every location by five o’clock tomorrow.”
“Then we’d better get to it,” Jaylene suggested. “Wyatt, if you want to call in the deputies you trust to help, Luke and I will start dividing up the list. Three teams, I think?”
He nodded and left the conference room.
Jaylene watched her partner as he frowned down at the map. “Getting anything?”
His eyes moved restlessly from red mark to red mark, and half under his breath he murmured, “Come on, Lindsay, talk to me.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Jaylene saw him go pale and suck in a sudden breath, his eyes taking on a curiously flat shine. It was something with which she was familiar, but it never failed to send a little chill down her spine.
“Luke?”
Still gazing at the map, he said slowly, “It’s gone now. But for just an instant I think I connected. It was like . . . she felt a jolt of absolute, wordless terror.”
“Where?” Jaylene asked.
“Here.” He indicated a handsbreadth area in the western part of the county. “Somewhere here.”
The area covered at least twenty square miles of the roughest terrain in the county and held nearly a dozen of their red marks.
“Okay,” Jaylene said. “That’s where you and I start looking.”
6
“I just want to know if he’s going to ask me to the homecoming dance.” Her voice was so nervous it wobbled, but it was determined as well, and her blue eyes were fixed on Samantha’s face with desperate intensity.
Samantha tried to remember what it felt like to be sixteen and so desperate about so many things, but even so she knew she had nothing in common with this pretty teenage girl or her ordinary life. There had been no homecoming dance for Samantha, no high-school rituals or worries about the right dress or who the football team’s star quarterback would ask out on Friday night.
At sixteen, Samantha’s worries had included putting in long hours to earn enough money so she didn’t starve, preferably without selling her body or soul in the process.
But she felt no resentment toward this girl, and her voice—lower and more formal than her usual speaking voice but with no fake accent—remained calm and soothing. “Then that is what I will tell you. Concentrate on this boy, close your eyes, and picture his face. And when you are sure you have his image in your mind, give me your hand.”
She had been using her crystal ball earlier in the evening, but for some reason tonight it had bothered her eyes to stare into it, so she had abandoned that prop for the less dramatic but more direct and often more accurate palm reading.
The teenager sat with eyes closed and pretty face screwed into fierce concentration for a moment, then opened her eyes and thrust out her right hand.
Samantha held it gently in both of hers, bending forward over it to seemingly peer intently at the lines crisscrossing the palm. She traced the lifeline with a light finger, more for effect than because she was “reading” the actual line.
She knew a bit more about palmistry than the average person—but only a bit more.
Her own eyes half closed, she was seeing something far different from the girl’s hand. “I see the boy in your mind,” she murmured. “He is wearing a uniform. Baseball, not football. He is a pitcher.”
The girl gasped audibly.
Samantha tilted her head to one side, and added, “He will ask you out, Megan, but not to the homecoming dance. Another boy will ask you to the homecoming dance.”
“Oh, no!”
“You will not be disappointed, I promise you. This is the boy you are meant to be with at this time in your life.”
“When?” Megan whispered. “When will he ask me?”
Samantha knew the exact day but also knew how to make her revelation sound more mysterious and dramatic. “On the next full moon,” she said. She glanced up in time to see a baffled look cross the girl’s face and was tempted to dryly advise her to look at a calendar. Or to look up at the sky, since the late-afternoon storms had passed and a bright nearly full moon shone hugely.
Samantha couldn’t remember if it was a harvest moon or a hunter’s moon, though the latter struck her as either an apt coincidence or a deliberate sense of timing by the kidnapper.
“Oh, Madam Zarina, thank you!”
As Samantha released the girl’s hand, she couldn’t help but add, “Choose the blue dress. Not the green one.”
Again, Megan gasped, but before she could say anything, Ellis appeared from the draperies behind Samantha and swept the girl out of the booth.
Samantha rubbed her temples briefly and drew a breath, trying to keep focused. Then Ellis returned, alone.
“What, am I done?” Samantha demanded.
“Are you kidding? You’ve got at least a dozen people waiting in line, and Leo says another dozen tickets have been sold so far tonight.”
“Well, then?”
“I told them you were taking a ten-minute break. Word’s spreading about your accuracy tonight, so nobody’s complaining.” Ellis vanished behind the draperies again, then returned with a big mug. “I’ve brought you some tea.”
She had known Ellis too long to waste time arguing, so Samantha merely accepted the tea and sipped it. “Sweet. I’m not in shock, you know.”
> “No, but you need fuel and I know damned well you won’t eat anything until you’re done tonight. You’ve been at this two hours nonstop, and it doesn’t take another psychic to feel your energy draining away.”
“I’m a little tired. It’ll pass.”
Sitting down in the client chair, Ellis said, “Judging by the reactions—yours as well as theirs—I’m guessing you’ve been getting hits all night. Psychic hits, I mean. Yes?”
“Yeah. It’s sort of weird, really. Not full-blown visions, just these flashes of images. And knowledge. I’ve never been so . . . on . . . before.”
“Why, do you think?”
“Dunno. That weird vision earlier today might have changed something. Maybe left me more plugged in than usual, for however long it lasts.”
“You’re not doing any cold reading at all?”
Samantha shook her head. It was something she had done in the past and would undoubtedly do in the future—and it was the sort of thing that made cops like Sheriff Metcalf suspicious. Because a really good “seer” could read the body language and “tells”—physical tics and gestures, usually unconscious—of her clients, weaving a subtle pattern of guesswork and half-truths into something that appeared to be genuine psychic ability.
Or magic.
She wasn’t particularly proud of that but, as Ellis had noted, Samantha had a highly practical nature and she did what she had to do in order to make her way in the world. The sign outside her booth clearly stated that she read for entertainment purposes only, and she weighed her clients carefully before offering them anything more than a show, wary of those who were too desperate or too gullible.
Usually they were like young Megan, anxious to know about their love lives, or whether a promotion at work was forthcoming, or where they could find the strongbox full of cash supposedly buried somewhere in the backyard by Great-Uncle George.
But sometimes . . . sometimes their faces were pale and beaded with desperate sweat, and their eyes were glazed, and their voices were so strained it was like listening to an animal in pain. Those were the ones Samantha did her best to recognize early, before already-intense emotions got out of control.
Half a lifetime of experience helped; she had more than once given a deliberately vague reading in order to avoid either upsetting or encouraging a client in a fragile mental state.
“Then everything you’ve told the clients tonight has been the truth?” Ellis demanded.
“Pretty much. It’s been harmless, mostly. Though I did see a couple of things I didn’t think they could handle, so I kept them to myself.”
“Tragedies?”
“Yeah. I saw one lady die in a car accident about six months from now—and knew there was nothing I could tell her to change the outcome.” She shivered and took another swallow of the hot, sweet tea. “You want to tell them to go hug their kids or make peace with their mothers, or make that list of the ten things they want to do before they die and damned well do them now. But you know—I know—they’d only fall apart if they believed me at all, and that would just make the rest of their lives miserable. So I don’t tell them. I just look at them . . . and hear the clock ticking off the time they have left. Jesus, it’s creepy knowing stuff like that.”
“I guess it would be. Do you believe in fate, Sam? You’ve never said.”
“I believe some things have to happen just the way they happen. So, yeah, I guess I do. Up to a point.”
“Free will?”
Samantha smiled wryly. “That is the point. I wouldn’t like to think my every move and decision had been mapped out before I was born. But I do believe the universe puts us in a position to make decisions and choices that will determine the next fork in the path. Change your decision—and you find yourself on a different path.”
“Is that why we’re here in Golden right now?”
Samantha drank more of the tea, frowning.
“Or you could just tell me to mind my own business.”
“It is your business. You’re here too.”
Ellis smiled faintly. “So . . . are we here because of your path, or Luke’s?”
With a slight grimace, Samantha replied, “Six of one and half a dozen of the other.”
“So you’re both on the same path?”
“No. Our paths just . . . intersected. The way they did once before. And I’d really like to be able to move on this time without feeling like I’ve . . . dropped acid and been half eaten by a lion.”
Both Ellis’s brows shot up. “Lovely imagery. Dropped acid? That’s more my generation than yours.”
Samantha frowned. “Maybe I picked it up from you. But, anyway, the gist stands. When it was over, I felt like I’d been out of my mind and got mauled because of it. By something with teeth and claws.”
“I wouldn’t have thought Luke was that ferocious.”
“You weren’t close to him.”
“Were you?”
After a moment of silence, Samantha drained her mug and handed it back to Ellis. “I think my break is over. If you’ll please tell the next client he or she can come in, I’ll let you go off and check on the concessions.” Ellis oversaw food and snacks at the carnival as well as serving as their nurse.
She got up without protest, saying merely, “You can avoid the question when I ask, Sam, but you’d better be honest with yourself. Especially now. Because I’ve got a hunch it would have taken a pretty strong reason for you to deliberately cross paths with Luke again. Like maybe . . . a life-and-death reason? And when a moment like that comes, the decisions are pure instinct, straight from the gut and the heart.”
“Lovely imagery,” Samantha muttered.
Ellis smiled. “The gist stands.” She turned toward the front doorway of the booth, adding, “Your turban’s crooked.”
Swearing under her breath, Samantha reached up to straighten the hated thing. Her fingers lingered on the old, fragile purple silk and skimmed over the glittering rhinestones, and she sighed.
Credibility. Or the lack thereof.
Luke and the rest of the Special Crimes Unit had the respected might of the federal government behind them, and even if the long history of the FBI had at times been somewhat checkered, respect for the men and women who served had certainly survived.
Behind Samantha was the Carnival After Dark, loud and colorful and intended as pure fun. Games and rides and sideshows. Like hers.
Like her.
But what had been her choices in the beginning? Precious few. One, really. One choice. One decision. Invent Zarina, with all her seductive mysticism and drama—or starve.
She’d been fifteen the first time she put on the turban. She had begun hanging around the Carnival After Dark when it passed close to New Orleans, where her hitchhiking had taken her. Offering to tell people’s fortunes on street corners had done little except get her arrested once or twice even in the Big Easy, and she’d thought a carnival might need or at least want a fortune-teller.
Leo had agreed—once she’d told him somewhat pugnaciously that his mother had been an opera singer, his father a doctor, and that the carnival’s knife-thrower had a drinking problem, would nick his assistant’s ear at that night’s show, and was going to kill somebody if his knives weren’t taken away from him.
All correct, at least up to her prediction of that evening’s show; after that, he fired the knife-thrower.
And Samantha had joined the Carnival After Dark. She had, over the years, honed and refined her “act.” Draping herself in swaths of colorful fabric, and clinking fake gold jewelry, applying heavy makeup to look older—and borrowing a turban Leo’s mother had worn on some of the finest stages of Europe.
Samantha hadn’t set out to become a carnival mystic. She wasn’t at all sure why she hadn’t, somewhere along the way, opted out and chosen to do something else with her life, especially once she’d gained confidence and had a little savings and the fear of starvation had left her. Because it had been easier, she supposed, to drift along
day after day, year after year, being with people she liked and doing work that demanded little of her. Isolated and insulated in her own little traveling bit of the world.
At least until Luke had come along.
Looking down at her hands folded atop the satin-draped table, she heard the swish of sound as Ellis brought the next client in and then disappeared silently through the curtain behind Samantha.
Beginning her usual spiel, Samantha said, “Tell Madam Zarina what it is you wish to know about—” She had been about to add “tonight” but didn’t bother when a ring dropped onto the table near her hands.
“I heard it helps if you touch things.” The woman’s voice was even, controlled. “So I brought that. Would you touch it, please?”
Samantha looked up slowly, knowing at once that this was one of the desperate ones. She had lost something, someone. She needed answers, and needed them badly.
A brown-eyed blonde of about thirty, she was pretty and casually dressed. And she was haunted. Her face was drawn, her hands writhed together in her lap, and her posture was so tense she practically trembled from the strain of holding herself still. She wanted to do something, was driven to take action, any action. This action.
Samantha looked at the ring. A birthstone, she thought. Opal. Plain band with the stone inset, small size. A child’s?
She returned her gaze to the woman and said, “Some lost things can never be found.”
The woman’s mouth quivered, then steadied. “Will you try? Please?”
All Samantha’s instincts told her to refuse, to make some excuse, refund this woman’s money, and stop this now. But she found herself reaching out, picking up the ring.
The darkness swept over her immediately, and the cold, and she was choking, drowning.
Samantha was never sure afterward if it was the instinct for self-preservation or just the utter certainty of how the vision would end—and how she would end if she remained caught up in it—but whichever it was caused her to drop the ring. And just as suddenly as she’d been drawn into the vision, she was yanked out of it.