Blood Ties (12 page)

“That sounds possible,” Quentin said. “Maybe even likely.”

“I guess. Looking back now… I don’t know what to think.”

In his usual neutral, pleasant tone, DeMarco said, “But it’s equally possible that someone could have been trying to influence you. Make you behave in ways you wouldn’t have consciously done.”

“Even when I was a child?”

“Maybe especially then. When it was still new to you, still something you were trying to learn to control.”

The possibility that someone could have been following her around in the gray time all these years, without her knowledge or even awareness, made Diana feel cold to the bone. It felt like a violation, a rape of her mind, of herself. She forced herself to speak calmly. “I suppose it’s possible. But—”

Still in that impassive tone, DeMarco said, “Psychic abilities often run in families.”

Understanding, Diana said, “My mother was psychic, I believe. Probably my sister, Missy, as well. But they’ve both been dead for years.”

“Is it possible your father—”

Diana laughed, hearing how brittle it sounded. “No. My father isn’t psychic. At all. My father doesn’t believe in psychics. He was convinced my mother was mentally ill. He chose to believe I was mentally ill rather than accept the possibility I might be a medium. How’s that for not believing in psychic abilities?”

DeMarco’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened somewhat when he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to open up old wounds.”

“Oh, no need to be sorry. You didn’t reopen anything. He more or less said that about a week ago. So, still a fresh wound, I’m afraid.”

Quentin said, “Diana, I told you it takes some people a lot longer to come to terms with this. My father still refuses to accept I’m a seer, and he’s known it for years.”

“Yeah, well, your father didn’t threaten to have you committed when you first told him, right?”

Hollis said, “Your father seriously did?”

Diana nodded jerkily. “He was deadly serious, believe me. Quentin can tell you; he was there. So was Bishop. I don’t know what Bishop said to my father later, but whatever it was, it at least stopped him threatening me. Now he just… It’s like water dripping on stone. I don’t belong in the FBI. I’m out of my element. I’m going to get myself killed. On and on.”

“I’m sorry,” DeMarco repeated.

She looked at him, then at the other two, and sighed. “No, I’m sorry. That’s … personal junk. Baggage. We all have it. Mine doesn’t alter the possibility that somebody could have been there with me in the gray time, trying to influence me—for whatever reason.”

“Creepy,” Hollis noted.

“I’ll say. Especially when I don’t have a clue who it might be—and have never been aware of another presence there.”

Quentin said, “Maybe because there wasn’t one. Look, this is all speculation.”

“But possible,” DeMarco noted.

Quentin sent the other man a quick frown, then said to Diana, “Never mind that now. Let’s focus on what happened tonight. How did you know it wasn’t me?” His voice was calm and steady, as was his gaze when she finally looked at him. “We both know I could have said those words, most of them at least. So how did you
know
it wasn’t me?”

“I just… knew. Almost from the first instant. It felt wrong. Like something was off. And all my strength was draining away suddenly, too suddenly. As if…”

“As if you were under attack?” DeMarco asked. “Because when I was pulling Hollis out, that’s what it felt like to me.”

H
e sat up and swung his feet off the bed, reaching immediately for the bottle on his nightstand.

A strong hand beat him to it, removing the bottle from his reach, and the visitor said, “Not just yet. Tell me.”

“Look, this shit isn’t easy, you know. Takes a lot out of me, I told you that. I’m tired and thirsty. I need—”

“You need to tell me what happened in the gray time. Now.”

He studied the visitor for a moment, then sent a longing glance toward the bottle and shrugged, trying not to look as wary as he felt. Money was great, and he was as willing to use his God-given talents for hire as a gifted artist was to sell his paintings; a man had to make a living, after all. But this particular “buyer” made him nervous.

Ruthless men with scary agendas made him nervous. Especially when they looked dangerous as hell.

“Tell me,” the visitor repeated.

‘Okay, okay. But I’m not so sure you’re going to like what I have to say, Bishop.”

“You let me worry about that.”

Six

D
EMARCO WAITED UNTIL
Hollis disappeared around the corner of the hallway toward her own room before saying to Quentin, “If someone’s been influencing Diana for years, we need to know about it.” He kept his voice low, since Diana’s closed door was only a few feet away.

“Doctors were influencing her for years. Her father was influencing her for years. The goddamn meds they had her on to
treat
her because they didn’t understand or refused to accept her abilities influenced her.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t need to know more about that tonight.” Quentin kept his voice low as well. “Look, she’s been through a lot. A hell of a lot. She’s made progress in the last year, but she’s a long way from feeling secure in herself and her abilities, especially with Elliot Brisco trying to undermine her confidence just about every step of the way.”

“He sounds like a real prince.”

“He’s a very wealthy man accustomed to getting what he wants. And he wants Diana back under his control. To protect her.” Quentin shook his head. “I try to be sympathetic, because he lost his wife and Diana’s sister, Missy, thirty years ago, and he naturally doesn’t want to let go of his only surviving child. And I’ve tried to stay out of it as much as I can, because it just isn’t smart to interfere between a parent and child—even a grown child. And especially between a father and daughter.”

“True enough.”

“Yeah. Though I’ve wanted to deck the man more than once, I don’t mind telling you.” Quentin shook his head. “But that’s not a situation that’s going to change anytime soon. What’s concerning me now is Diana’s reaction to the idea that someone else, some other medium, might have been hiding in the gray time with her since she was a child, watching her and, yes, maybe even influencing her. It’s bound to spook her. Hell, it spooks me.”

“It should spook all of us, Quentin, and you know it. What happened with Samuel plus all the other little leaks and breaches in security we’ve had to deal with these last few months are clear evidence that someone inside the SCU has been passing on information, to the Director and possibly to others.”

“We don’t know it’s one of us,” Quentin protested, because he had to.

“We don’t know it isn’t. In fact, it more than likely is an SCU team member, considering how little specific information about the unit gets out otherwise. Given that strong possibility, we’ve got two alternatives: Either an SCU member is deliberately and consciously betraying the rest of us, or else a psychic outside the unit has found a way to tap into one of us—maybe more than one of us—and get information without our awareness.”

Quentin didn’t like hearing either possible scenario voiced aloud, mostly because he’d considered both long before now. But all he said was, “It can’t be Diana, and I mean
can’t
. Not only is she new to the SCU, but up until a couple of months ago, she was in training, completely uninvolved in any of our cases.”

“You didn’t talk to her?”

“Not details, not until we were set to join this investigation and she needed to be brought up to speed. And she didn’t see any of the reports until then.”

“Okay. Still, if her ability makes her vulnerable in any way to outside influences, we need to know about it.”

“Not tonight,” Quentin repeated.

“Personal feelings aside—”

“My personal feelings
are
aside, at least about this. Reese, so far the only remotely psychic activity we’ve had in this case has involved Hollis, Diana—and the gray time. I haven’t seen anything, and if she’s being straight with us, Miranda hasn’t seen much. Unless—can you read her?”

“Miranda? No. Almost always no, but definitely no here and now. I assumed it was because she and Bishop are apart, both shielding and guarding their connection, because it’s a vulnerability.”

“Which it is, at least when they’re separated by physical distance.”

DeMarco nodded. “And with Bishop worried about a possible traitor, he’d most definitely guard his vulnerabilities.”

“Traitor
. That’s… a strong word.”

“It’s a strong thing. A dangerous thing. And you know it.”

“I know every team member,” Quentin said. “And many of the active Haven operatives. And none of them is a traitor.”

“Consciously, at least. Let’s hope not.”

Reluctant, Quentin said, “If it’s unconscious, unknowing—if one of us is being influenced or at least tapped into—then it has to be on a level you telepaths obviously can’t reach, or one of you would have picked up on it by now.”

“Probably,” DeMarco agreed. “And if it’s that deep, chances are it
is
below the level of conscious thought.”

“So it may be only through our mediums that we find answers in this one. In the gray time, where we’ve seen the first real sign of some kind of deception. And if it is, we can’t risk shaking Diana’s confidence to the point that she’s unable to open that door. Because none of the rest of us can do it.”

DeMarco drew a breath and let it out in a short sigh, a bit impatient but accepting. “Logical. Even practical. But… if it was me, I’d want to know there might be something hiding in the corner.”

“She already knows that much. And I agree it’s a possibility that needs to be discussed. But leave the timing of it up to me, okay?”

“All right, it’s your call. Just do us all a favor and remember that somebody took a shot at us, moving this case from investigative to actively dangerous. For us. I don’t know about you, but I hate wearing those goddamn vests.”

“So do I. Though if you’re right about the skills of that sniper, he’s just as likely to go for a head shot.”

“Nice thing to remind me before bedtime. Thanks.”

“Speaking of, what the hell time is it anyway? I left my cell in my room.”

“Quarter after two,” DeMarco replied, without looking at his watch.

“You know or guessing?”

“I know. Like Diana’s internal compass, I have an internal clock. Usually accurate to within five minutes.”

“Then why wear a watch?”

“Because I can. They don’t go dead on me the way they do on most of the rest of you; my shield apparently holds the energy in. At least until I use my abilities, and then only if I’m pushing full strength.”

“Which I’m guessing you don’t often do.”

“Without knowing whether it’ll blow a fuse in my brain one day? No, not often. I’m big on self-preservation.”

“When it comes right down to it, we probably all are. Genetically hardwired for it.” Quentin took a step toward his room, then paused to add, “Interesting that within the unit you and Hollis have the highest levels of electrical activity in your brains.”

“I’m sure it frustrates the hell out of Bishop.” When Quentin lifted a brow at him, DeMarco explained, “Another item on the growing list of paranormal inexplicables neither lab work nor fieldwork has provided answers for. Or, really, any basis to even begin comparing: My abilities and Hollis’s are very, very different.”

“Almost opposite,” Quentin agreed. “Which raises the question—”

“I think we’ve had enough questions for tonight, don’t you? We’re supposed to meet in the dining room at eight; it would be nice to get at least a little sleep before breakfast.”

“Oh, yeah, you can say that again. I’m so beat I can barely think. See you in the morning.”

“‘Night.” DeMarco made his way back toward his own room, pausing for only an instant outside Hollis’s closed door. Her light was on.

He wondered if she’d sleep at all tonight.

His hesitation was so slight he doubted she could have heard it in his footsteps. If she could have heard his footsteps at all, which was even more doubtful. In any case, DeMarco returned to his own room.

Long habit made him check the windows, the closets, all the corners, even under the bed before he relaxed. The habit didn’t strike him as extreme; he had lived with it for too long.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and pushed back the loose shirt cuff covering his left wrist. The watch was metal, with a buckle, and it took him several careful tries to pry it open.

The metal was a bit melted.

He grimaced slightly as he peeled the watch off his wrist, revealing scorched skin where the metal had touched it.

Aloud, he muttered, “Note to self: Stop wearing a fucking watch.”

He tossed the ruined watch toward his open suitcase and briefly examined his wrist. Not a bad burn, just painful enough to be annoying. He carried a compact first-aid kit with him when he traveled, another long-standing habit, but didn’t bother to dig it out of his bag. The burn was slight enough and would probably be all but gone by morning.

They usually were.

Not that it had happened very many times. He was a cautious man, after all, and rarely threw that caution to the winds.

But this was the second ruined watch of the day, dammit. The first one had possessed a leather strap fashioned so that no part of the metal watch touched his skin; that watch was now tucked in a side pocket of his suitcase, its metal parts all fused and melted together—an event that had occurred at about the time DeMarco knocked Hollis to the ground to avoid a sniper’s bullet.

At least it didn’t burn me
.

He wondered rather idly if a scan of his brain right now would show even more electrical activity than its previous high, which had occurred just after the final confrontation at the Church of the Everlasting Sin. In that deadly hour, during a battle that had been charged with sheer, raw power, the energies hissing in the very air around them had undoubtedly changed all of them in ways they hadn’t even begun to calculate.