A Deadly Web

by Kay Hooper

  The other man stiffened, but nodded. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

  “Good. Then we understand each other.”

  “Yes.” He drew a breath and let it out. “You don’t ask for meetings for no reason, especially when I’m . . . working. What is it I need to know?”

  Duran considered, as if making up his mind, then said, “The planned fund-raiser for Friday.”

  “Yes?”

  “If possible, push it back a few days, to the following week. And it would be best if you found a reason not to be in Charleston while your hostess gets ready for your grand fund-raiser.”

  “Not be here? But—” He caught himself. “Certainly. The campaign has been hectic for weeks now. No one would be very surprised if I flew back home to . . . decompress.”

  “Leave first thing in the morning.” Duran frowned. “We’ll plan a few brief and seemingly casual campaign stops coming and going. We wouldn’t want anyone to think your campaign was running out of steam.”

  “That makes sense. Anything else?”

  Duran rose to his feet and looked at the other man as he followed suit. “Yes. Have your stylist pick all your ties from now on, and don’t argue with her. The one you wore night before last looked ridiculously garish on the news clip. It was almost difficult to take you seriously.”

  “Right. No problem.”

  “You’ll also be meeting a few more prospective wives, but make certain nothing goes too far. We want the media interested in your love life, but we don’t want them hearing wedding bells just yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “The women, of course, understand their roles.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “Good. Then you won’t make the mistake of taking their smiles and admiration at face value.”

  “No. No, I won’t.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your . . . event.”

  Recognizing a dismissal, the man merely nodded, turned, and walked back to his car.

  Duran stood where he was, watching the car move away, and then, half under his breath, he muttered, “Maybe not such a problem, Brodie. Unless there’s someone on your side now capable of discovering a truth you can never know. Or unless your . . . connection . . . with Tasha Solomon turns out to be something very unexpected indeed.”

  Or both.

  —

  When Tasha opened her eyes, she was half convinced the “conversation” with Elizabeth Brodie had been nothing more than a dream, conjured from a vivid imagination and exhaustion.

  Except that she knew better. Even though the room was empty of anyone but herself. Even though no lovely dark-haired woman sat in a chair looking at her with soul-deep sadness in her eyes.

  She pulled herself from bed, feeling oddly stiff, probably because she had lain in virtually the same position for too many hours. She found herself very conscious of the low sound of the TV in her living room and of Brodie’s presence.

  He hadn’t left her alone.

  Tasha gathered up some clothing and then went into her bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her. She took a long, hot shower, more to ease her stiffness and really wake up than anything else. She thought about the information she had been given, a little surprised that she remembered every detail and yet . . . not surprised at all.

  It all seemed so incredible. So unbelievable.

  Except that she was right in the middle of it.

  She got out and dried off, wiping the fogged mirror that, this time, had no chilling message written on it. Thank God. Just her reflection, still and quiet. Not so weary as it had been lately, but . . . different.

  Tasha wasn’t sure how and felt too unnerved to probe.

  She dried her hair without really looking into the mirror again, then got dressed in a pair of comfortable stretch jeans and an oversized jersey pullover. Dorm socks with kittens on them completed the look. She wasn’t going for fashionable or sexy. She wanted casual and warm.

  And possibly to hide. Just a bit.

  Brodie looked her up and down when she came out of the bedroom but didn’t comment on her choice of clothing. He gave the appearance of being relaxed: jacket off, cuffs rolled back.

  He was not relaxed.

  “I know you’ll probably say you’re not hungry,” he said by way of a greeting, “but you slept hours and you need to eat. So I found the menu for what looks like one of your favorite take-out places and ordered Chinese. They seemed to know what you usually order, so that’s what I ordered for you. That okay?”

  “It’s fine. Did you call down to the desk?”

  “I thought maybe you should. The guard seemed reassured hours ago, but it never hurts to . . . reinforce that.”

  Tasha merely nodded, then went to the LCD screen/intercom by the door—an intercom that was also two-way video when the right button was pushed—and called downstairs, cheerfully telling the security guard on duty that they were expecting a delivery from her favorite Chinese restaurant. She pushed the right button, so he could see her smiling face.

  “Got it, Ms. Solomon. You seem much better.”

  “Sleep. I highly recommend it. Now I highly recommend food. I’m starving.” She kept her voice light and casual.

  “I’ll buzz you when we’re on the way up with the food, Ms. Solomon.”

  “Thanks, Stewart.” She released the button and frowned a little at Brodie as she turned from the door. “He’s either working late or pulling a double shift.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it usual, but it happens now and then. Security runs four six-hour shifts, and the work isn’t exactly hard. Sometimes the guards trade a shift or double up if one has tickets to a concert or something.”

  Brodie grunted. “I’m betting Stewart is still on because he’s concerned about you. He did say he’d buzz you when we come with the delivery. Does he usually?”

  “No, not with delivery people the security staff here knows. And they know most of them. They certainly know the staff at my favorite Chinese restaurant. It’s the same one other residents use because it’s closest and the food and service are great.”

  “Well, it won’t hurt to reassure him in person that you’re looking as well as sounding better.”

  Tasha accepted that assessment in the spirit in which she assumed it was intended, and said merely, “Did you get any rest?”

  “I dozed now and then. Catnaps. I can get by with them for quite a while.”

  “I bet,” she murmured, moving toward the living area. She eyed a football game muted on her TV. “You’re a football fan?”

  “Not really.” When she looked at him, he added, “Not really a sports fan of any kind. Tasha, I don’t usually stay very long in one place, and even though some Guardian assignments are more . . . stationary . . . than others, I still tend to move around a lot. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you which teams are playing right now, and I generally know even less about current TV shows and movies.”

  I wonder how much of what most of us consider necessary for a full life seems trivial to him.

  Tasha went to curl up in the big chair-and-a-half that was her favorite reading chair and frowned at him for a moment before making a determined attempt to wear a more casual face. “You really have given your life over to this.” And I know why. But I can’t say I know. Not yet. And I don’t think he’ll ask if I got information about his wife and marriage out of his mind when I read him. When we connected. I don’t think he wants to know whether I can do that.

  He shrugged, keeping it light. “Some people go through their entire lives with boring jobs and nothing that rouses them to fight. Nothing that really matters to them or seems to make a difference in the world. Wondering if they even have a purpose in life that counts for anything. And in case you’re wondering, even though this wasn’t something I planned, it is somet
hing I’ve committed to. Completely.”

  Because you couldn’t save her.

  “Yeah, I get that,” she murmured. “What I’m wondering about is the endgame.”

  He sat down on the rounded arm of the sofa, which put him directly across from her. “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . . you said it varies from psychic to psychic. The ways they find to protect themselves. That some go into hiding while others go into the spotlight. Right?”

  He nodded.

  “And I’m sure some join up with you—your side in all this—and find a kind of protection among other psychics and those who understand them, as well as a use for their abilities. Something useful, even important, to devote their lives to.”

  Brodie hesitated, then nodded. “A few have joined up along the way. We’re honestly wary of that, especially with telepaths and clairvoyants, because we’re fairly certain Duran is using psychics on his side, powerful ones, and quite a few of them. My guess is to gather intelligence as well as locate other psychics for him.”

  “Which means a psychic on this side, especially a telepath or a clairvoyant, could be an especially good source of information for them. Because one of us could pick up bits and pieces of intelligence we wouldn’t ordinarily have access to. Know more about the organization, even outside whatever cell we’re a part of.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Tasha thought about that for a moment. “But we tend to have shields. I don’t know about new telepaths, but those of us born with it build our shields early or go nuts. And I’m guessing the born psychics outnumber those . . . created. Yes?”

  Brodie nodded slowly. “As far as we’ve been able to tell, that’s true. More psychics are born than created, and those born with abilities tend to have some kind of shield.”

  “Then it seems more logical that if it’s one of his tactics to try to get whatever information he can through psychics, Duran would be using his telepaths to read those of you who don’t have abilities and so likely don’t have shields, or to read newly created psychics who haven’t learned to shield yet.”

  “That possibility has occurred to us.”

  “It’s happened in the past?”

  “Maybe. We aren’t completely certain.” Brodie shook his head suddenly. “Well, some of us are certain. If you’ve been in this thing long enough, you see things. Things you really can’t explain. You have to theorize, draw inferences, whatever. Newly created psychics seem to be in the most danger from them, and at least some of us have wondered if it’s because they simply haven’t yet learned to protect their own minds. Duran and his kind have powerful psychics to do their bidding, for whatever reasons, and they want more. They need more.”

  “And . . . born psychics give them more trouble?”

  “I believe they find it more difficult to control born psychics, at least most of them. Those are the ones they have to grab in the dead of night, leaving a burning house or wrecked car or unrecognizable body behind to keep the cops from asking too many questions.”

  Tasha thought about that, trying not to shiver. “Born psychics. And people working against them who aren’t psychic at all. Those are the targets most likely to become the focus of one of his psychics.”

  “Definitely.” He hesitated again, then said, “Over the years, we’ve evolved our techniques and procedures through experience. We discover something is needed, usually the hard way, and then we have that from then on. We don’t usually discuss it, but Guardians and soldiers—whoever is out in the field—always have backup nearby. Gifted psychics, some of the most gifted we have. They do their job, and it’s likely you’ll never see them. But what they do is . . . patrol . . . the general area around us. As long as we’re protecting a psychic. And reach out with their senses, carefully.”

  “For the bad guys?”

  “More for other psychics working for them. The bad guys themselves are . . . slippery.”

  “Because they’re shadows?”

  TEN

  Astrid entered the hotel room, saying airily, “You rang?”

  Duran wasn’t by the window, which was more customary, but instead was seated in a big chair facing a flat-screen TV he very obviously was not watching. “I have a job for you.”

  “I’m still dealing with the pounding headache your last job left me with.”

  “Have one of the healers take care of that.”

  Astrid almost physically shied away, a betraying gesture that made her grit her teeth and swear inwardly. “I’d rather not,” she said, polite.

  Equally pleasant, he said, “Did I ask you what your preference was?”

  “No.”

  “Have one of the healers deal with the headache.”

  She drew a breath and let it out in a short burst. “Look, if whatever this job is involves my abilities, the last thing I need is a visit to one of the healers. They might be able to stop the pain, but it’ll leave my abilities . . . muffled. For hours. Is that what you want?”

  A rare frown crossed his face. “Can you work through the pain?”

  “Probably depends on what the job is,” she said honestly.

  “I need you to circle the established perimeter around Tasha Solomon’s neighborhood.”

  “And do what?”

  “Tell me who their guardian psychic is.”

  It was her turn to frown. “I thought you knew that.”

  “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”

  It was so rare for him to admit to uncertainty that it caught Astrid off guard for a moment. Finally, she asked, “Why not?”

  “Because of what happened when you were in Solomon’s mind.”

  “I told you, Brodie—”

  “Brodie couldn’t have gone into the maze and helped her escape it. Not on his own.”

  Slowly, Astrid said, “Not many psychics would be capable of helping him like that. Especially without touching him physically, or even being close to him at all.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s what worries you.”

  Duran looked at her. “I need to know if this is a new player, or someone we’ve dealt with before.”

  “Someone we’ve dealt with—who didn’t come over to this side and didn’t die in some kind of accident?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Didn’t know there were any of those. Except—you mean the public psychics? The ones who choose to stand out in the open?”

  “Maybe we’ve made too many assumptions about them.”

  “As in assuming they stepped out into the spotlight to get out of the war as well as make lesser targets of themselves?”

  He didn’t question her terminology. “It has seemed obvious from those we’ve observed that once they became public, they had no further contact with the other side.”

  “That we know of.” Hastily, she added, “It makes sense. They’re safe in the spotlight, at least from us. I mean, unless you’ve come up with some nifty way to spirit them away without suspicion. And, no offense, but I doubt you have. Every single psychic I know of who chose to go public isn’t alone—and for most of them, it’s a whole lot deeper than a partnership. You won’t come between them, and if both of them suffer some . . . untimely accident . . . I have a hunch they’ve left a few letters or packages with friends. Lawyers. In safe-deposit boxes, to be opened in the event of their deaths or disappearances. Letters that could come with proof, or at least enough questions to stir up the authorities.”

  Duran nodded. “You don’t step out into the spotlight without taking precautions first. Yes, I know.” He shook his head slightly. “That may be a moot point, at least for now. We have no evidence that any of the public psychics has maintained contact, as I said. This could be someone new. I need to know who he or she is.”

  “So I circle the perimeter and find out if I can sense anyone.�
�

  “Yes.”

  “Right.” But she couldn’t help adding, as she turned toward the door, a muttered “My head is gonna be splitting in the morning.”

  Duran looked after her for a moment, then turned his head quickly toward a dim corner by one of the windows. He had thought he’d caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. But, no.

  It was only a shadow.

  —

  Sarah drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Damn, he’s quick.”

  “And you’re pushing your luck,” Tucker Mackenzie told his wife severely. “It’s dangerous enough to listen in on any of their conversations, especially with a psychic in the same room, but to let Duran even suspect he might have seen something—”

  “Only a shadow.” A bit grimly, she added, “I’d love to give him a taste of what it feels like.”

  “Maybe he already knows. He is one of them.”

  Sarah frowned and relaxed against her husband’s side. They were in the living room of a hotel suite—more than a mile away from Duran.

  “I’m not sure he really does know,” she said slowly. “I mean what we sense about them. Easy enough to say we sense shadows, but you and I both know the feelings are cold and slimy—beyond creepy.”

  “You don’t think he gets that?”

  “On an intellectual level, sure. Emotionally?”

  “Does he even have emotions?” Tucker asked, about half seriously.

  “I think he has emotions that run a lot deeper than he wants anyone to know. Including himself.”

  Tucker thought about that for a moment. “Ever since what happened at the church, I’ve wondered about that guy. Even though he seemed to have won what he wanted, he could have won more. At the very least, he could have caused us a lot of trouble officially. The fire, the dead bodies.”*

  “It would have caused him trouble too. Neither side wants the authorities paying attention. Not, at least, until we can give them something that sounds . . .”

  “Rational?”

  “Well, something they’re more inclined to believe than a vague conspiracy theory involving missing psychics.”