A Deadly Web

by Kay Hooper

  “You’re the one leaping to conclusions.”

  “What, because I can recognize sparks between two people?”

  “No, because you’re assuming they’ll do something about it.”

  “Most people do,” she told him dryly. “You can call it chemistry, biology, or just plain emotions, but the truth is that we know instinctively how rare it is. And we’re pretty much driven from that point on.”

  “She’s in danger. That’s going to be the driving force behind any action Brodie takes. He’s on guard for her, not for himself.”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “I really hope you’re not planning to try to get to her through him. I told you, I can’t afford to lose Brodie.”

  “What makes you think you would?”

  Bluntly, she said, “Because he’ll die a bloody death before he does anything at all to help you, Duran, and that goes double for being used to hurt a psychic. There’s hate, and then there’s hate. We’ve lost too many in this war, and Brodie blames himself for more than one of them. He also blames you.”

  “And maybe I don’t need an enemy with a hatred that personal.”

  “What, and I’m supposed to believe that’s suddenly bothering you after years?” She tilted her head suddenly like a sharply inquisitive bird. “Something’s changed. You didn’t count on him connecting with Tasha Solomon, did you?”

  “He isn’t psychic.”

  “You mean he wasn’t. But neither was Tucker Mackenzie. It’s not as if it’s unprecedented. You had to know it was possible. And I’m betting Astrid confirmed it.”

  Duran moved slightly, a rare betrayal of tension. Murphy couldn’t see him very well, because as usual they were meeting in a dim and out-of-the-way place, this time a deserted section of an underground parking garage. And she didn’t flatter herself into believing she could read him even after all this time. But sometimes body language didn’t require knowledge.

  Watching him intently, Murphy said, “So that really is the rub. Not so much that he connected with Tasha, but that it turns out he has some psychic ability of his own. You really didn’t expect that. And it’s somehow a threat to one of your plans.”

  Instead of responding to that, Duran said, “Astrid said you were the one who took her out tonight.”

  That was a topic Murphy had been prepared for. “Something I’ve been practicing.”

  “I didn’t know your abilities worked that way.”

  “Abilities evolve, Duran. Or didn’t you know that?”

  “They don’t evolve in quantum leaps.”

  “No? Well, if you say so. I’m sure you’ve tested your psychics and know all about our limitations.”

  “Don’t assume too much,” Duran warned her. “You know what they say about that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We both know I’m assuming nothing; I may not know why, specifically, you need psychics, but I’m damned positive your group has been studying the hell out of the ones you have. Look, I’ll work with the devil if I have to, but only because I’m convinced there’s something a lot worse threatening both of us—and there are a few goals we have in common, at least for the time being.”

  “That was the understanding,” he agreed.

  “It wasn’t open-ended, Duran.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then you also know that the moment this . . . understanding . . . between us becomes untenable, it’s over. And there won’t be another.”

  Evenly, he said, “You know I do what I can.”

  “Achieve the goal but minimize the fallout? I know your bosses would approve a lot more violence. I know the line you’re walking is as fine as the one I’m walking. And I know if your loyalty is questioned, I’ll have a far worse devil to deal with.”

  “Then deal with me.”

  “By handing over Tasha Solomon? It’s not going to happen, Duran. It was never going to happen, I told you that. Your side beats us to a psychic, I can barely stomach that. Casualties of war. But we have Tasha. Brodie has Tasha.” She paused, then added softly, “And we know about your web.”

  “My web?”

  “Don’t play innocent, Duran, it’s not your best face. Neighbors in her building. People who work in the area. People she thought were friends, or at least nonthreatening acquaintances. People you put in position to surround her. To watch her. You had plenty of time to grab Tasha or arrange some kind of accident to explain her disappearance, and you didn’t make a move. That might prove to be a costly mistake. We know who they are now. Maybe it’s your turn to lose a few soldiers.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because they aren’t there just for her. They weren’t put in place only for her benefit. They are . . . an experiment.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  After a moment, he said, “We trade in information, you and I.”

  “So far,” she agreed. “Though if you pull another stunt like you did months ago, telling Brodie to look for a traitor in his own camp, I promise to make you very sorry you did.”

  “Took me seriously, did he?”

  “I suppose I should feel grateful you weren’t more specific. He doesn’t trust you as far as he could throw a Buick, but that warning bothered him. And everybody’s background and whereabouts at critical moments had to be gone over and accounted for. Weeks wasted while everybody was checked and checked again.”

  “Luckily, you’re very good at what you do,” Duran told her.

  “I mean it, Duran. Do not play games with me. Trust me when I tell you that for you, I’m irreplaceable.”

  “Point taken,” he said at last.

  “I hope so. Information?”

  “Tasha Solomon can . . . confirm something for you.”

  “What?”

  “A suspicion. Speculation. Check her parentage.”

  “What good will it do me to know about whatever this is?” Murphy demanded.

  “I don’t know,” he returned pleasantly. “Add to your understanding, perhaps. Provide you with another piece of the puzzle.” He started to turn away, then paused to say, “You realize, of course, that I can’t just stand by and allow you to spirit Solomon away without making any effort to stop you.”

  “Because she’s important to your side. To your bosses.”

  “A habit of failure can’t be tolerated,” he said. “Which is why it won’t be me personally. You understand.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

  He half bowed, an urbane, oddly natural gesture, and within moments Murphy knew she was alone in the garage. She stood there for a few moments longer, frowning, then checked one of the burner phones she’d recharged before this meeting.

  Four A.M.

  Sarah?

  I’m here. Quiet night. Nobody’s been—you should forgive the expression—shadowing you. No activity around Tasha. I think a security guard from their side works this part of the night shift, but I’m not sensing any threat from him. Not like before. Either he’s a different guard or else his orders—or his feelings—changed.

  Feelings?

  Whoever I was picking up before had definite feelings about Brodie. Didn’t like him. At all.

  Jealous?

  Could be. Tasha is a beautiful woman, and single.

  They’re generally so cold and ruthless, I guess I never considered one of them having those sorts of feelings.

  Hey, you and I have both faced off against them in the flesh, so we know they get mad. Stands to reason they’d have other feelings as well. Maybe surprising to feel something positive for one of us, but then I don’t know that it was positive. Jealousy isn’t, really.

  No, it isn’t. You can want something without having warm, fuzzy feelings about it. Could be dangerous, that’s for sure. Listen, is Tucker still up?<
br />
  I’m up, he’s up. What do you need?

  Research. And nobody does it better.

  —

  It was around six when Tasha woke. Early for her, but not really by much. She smelled bacon frying, and it surprised her since she rarely ate breakfast here and so seldom bought or kept breakfast foods.

  But then she remembered that among her take-out/delivery menus was one from a little grocery store half a block down from the coffee shop. Having groceries delivered was becoming more and more common in these busy days, especially in upscale neighborhoods where very busy professionals led very busy lives. Brodie must have found the menu and called in an order; she seriously doubted he had left the condo for a moment since last night.

  She tried to keep her mind mostly blank as she went through her usual morning routine of washing her face, brushing her teeth, getting dressed. She pulled her hair back with a clip at the nape of her neck, but didn’t bother with makeup. She usually didn’t.

  She came out of her bedroom just as Brodie was pouring coffee, and she found herself wondering how his timing was always so on target. But she pushed that vaguely curious question aside, because she didn’t want to think about anything that mattered.

  Not yet.

  There was juice, and two plates with bacon, eggs, and toast on the counter.

  “I usually don’t eat this much in the morning,” she said.

  “Yeah, I figured. But eating meals is the same as getting rest; in a situation when you might have to move at any moment, you eat and sleep when you can.”

  “I get that. I’m just not hungry.” She slid onto a stool and glanced over to the living room, where her TV was tuned to a news channel, the volume down low. “Anything happening in the world outside our little bubble?”

  “Usual. Crime, war, economics, human interest stories. And politics, of course. Lots of politics in an election year.”

  “I suppose I should get more involved in that,” she said, taking a bite of bacon and discovering her appetite.

  “Politics? Why?”

  “I suppose so I can vote and then bitch about it later. You can’t really not vote and then bitch about what’s happening. At least as a voter you try to make your voice and opinions heard.”

  Brodie sipped his coffee and eyed her. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to be terribly normal today?”

  “Maybe because I am.” Tasha pushed her eggs around on the plate, then set her fork down with a sigh and reached for her coffee. “All this time I’ve been living here, believing I was safe, when the . . . the enemy was all around me. Wearing smiling faces. Pretending to be my neighbors. What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Accept it. And move on.”

  “Figuratively? Or literally?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he said frankly. “We have a safe house prepared for you, but no one is entirely certain yet if that’s the way you should go.”

  “The hide or go public question, you mean?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully.

  “What’s your preference?”

  Tasha felt herself frowning. “I don’t like the idea of hiding. Of never being able to live anything like a normal life.”

  “Do you think going public would give you that? There is a cost, Tasha. Plenty of people would be afraid of you, but there would also be the ones who believe you can help them. The ones with lost children, lost loves, the ones looking for lottery numbers and the cures for diseases and a glimpse into the future to give them answers—or an edge.”

  “So I become a recluse or a sideshow freak. Great. That’s just great.” She slid off the stool and carried her coffee a few steps toward the living room.

  That was when she saw a political ad on TV. She couldn’t hear the sound, but it hardly mattered. A candidate for the office of lieutenant governor in South Carolina. A handsome, smiling face. A spotless record in lesser offices in his climb toward the office he now aspired to. A rare bachelor candidate, but young enough to make that a plus.

  Eliot Wolfe.

  Tasha’s coffee cup fell from nerveless fingers and shattered on the marble floor.

  FIFTEEN

  Bishop rejoined his wife in the spacious foyer of what had once been and perhaps would be again a splendid old home; right now it was partially restored, filled with the clutter of work suddenly stopped. Paint-spattered dustcloths were draped over pieces of antique furniture, sawhorses and ladders waited to be used again, and leaning against walls beside their too-modern replacements were original windows and doors in various stages of returning to their former glory.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary I could find,” Miranda reported, frowning slightly. “It’s an old house in the middle of being restored. Did Henry’s client say she was going to finish the work?”

  “If she can find someone as good as Henry. Or if Henry comes back. She said that with real hope.”

  “Because of the house or Henry? You said he was a bit of a loner, right?”

  “Yeah, not at all a ladies’ man. But from what I could tell, women were drawn to him. Maybe the sad eyes.”

  Miranda lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “When I was checking into his background, a woman who had gone to school with him made that comment. It stuck in my mind.”

  “Was he a strong medium?”

  “About a five on our scale. He probably would have ranked higher if he had wanted to consciously use his abilities. But he never did. Said the spirits came to him, silent and smiling, and led him to wherever various owners had stashed or packed away original fittings and fixtures. He really didn’t want to know how to control it or how to make it work for him. Just wanted to keep doing the work he loved and be left alone.”

  She shook her head. “That’s the hellish part of all this, isn’t it? These psychics, at least the ones you kept track of, just wanted to live the most normal lives they could. They struggled to either suppress their abilities or work them into daily living with as little drama as possible. And then one day, somebody just . . . takes them away. And does God only knows what with them.”

  “I’m guessing that at the very least, they’re being forced to explore their abilities whether they want to or not.”

  “Psychic abilities don’t exactly come to heel when called. We know this.”

  “Better than most, yeah. But I’m also guessing various forms of persuasion are being used.”

  “Torture?”

  It was Bishop’s turn to frown. “Murphy was very certain and very clear in what she said about the abducted psychics never being the same again. Since she also said no abducted psychics they know of ever returned to their former lives, I’m guessing she knows what she does because she or members of their group have encountered abducted psychics in the field—working for the other side.”

  “Persuaded, bribed, tortured, converted. Pick your poison.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like. Forever altered. But what’s behind it all? If they were only taking precogs, I’d guess they were in it for profit, looking for someone who could reliably predict the winning team or the next card in the deck or whatever foreknowledge would net the most money. But they’re taking people with every psychic ability we know of, pretty much. Where’s the rhyme or reason in that?”

  “It’s coming clearer to me how so many people could have looked for answers for years, even decades, without finding them,” Miranda confessed.

  “Yeah, a tougher goal than one might imagine. If not for profit, they must have some use for the different abilities. And . . . psychic abilities are so different, one from the other, as well as having aspects unique to that individual.

  “So no pattern to hold to there. Not, at least, one I can see yet.”

  “Well, since Henry’s ability is as a medium, and neither of us shares that, I somehow doubt we’re going to find any usefu
l information here. Just like at Katie’s place. You want to go for door number three and try Grace Seymore’s house?”

  “You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic,” he noted.

  “I just don’t think we’re going to find anything useful looking at another empty house.”

  Before Bishop could respond to that, a buzzing sound came from the leather satchel-type briefcase he had left on a dustcloth-draped low table in the foyer. He went to it and pulled out his cell phone. “Might even last till noon,” he murmured, noting before taking the call the only-slightly-diminished battery he had unplugged from its charger barely two hours previously.

  “Bishop.” He listened, his eyes on his wife, frowning a little for a moment before his brows lifted in surprise. “I see. Thank you, Detective, for the call. I won’t forget it.”

  “What is it?” Miranda asked as soon as he ended the call.

  “Something remarkable, if we’re to believe all we’ve been told,” Bishop said to her. “That was the detective who looked into the disappearance of Grace Seymore. It appears she’s come home.”

  —

  It took only two steps for Brodie to reach Tasha, but when he followed her fixed stare, all he saw on TV was a chirpy blonde offering financial market information.

  “Tasha?”

  “You aren’t going to like this,” she said slowly. “But I need you to trust me.”

  “I trust you,” he said, already not liking the sense of foreboding that made him want to stop her from saying whatever it was.

  “Good. I need to see Murphy. Alone.”

  “Why?”

  “I said you’d have to trust me. I need to talk to her about something.”

  “Something I can’t hear?”

  She hesitated. “Something you can’t hear . . . yet. John, please. It’s very important.”

  He hesitated, staring at her. She was pale but composed. Even more, the odd link they had shared since her trip to the “maze” somewhere in his mind had apparently been shut down on her end.

  Very, very tightly.

  He had absolutely no idea what she was thinking or feeling.