Fear the Dark (17 page)

Luke eased Sam down into the closest chair as Jonah hurried from the building.

“Are you all right?”

“Seem to be. Not even tired, really.” She looked at him as Luke sat beside her, and said, “Okay, so I'm a little tired. And I have a mild headache. But that was . . . wild. Luke, you still couldn't sense Nessa, could you? Even after I made contact through Jonah.”

“Not so much as a twinge.”

“That's what I thought. And I know why. It's not our unsub blocking you. I'm not sure if she learned it on her own or somebody taught her to, but Nessa knows how to overlay a still, calm surface on her mind. Like one of our shields, but completely organic and natural to her. You couldn't sense her fear or pain because it was underneath that surface.”

“Jonah could feel it,” Luke objected. “He said her feet were cold.”

“But he didn't
feel
that. He was just reporting what she was thinking. That was the only thing she would allow out. Just thoughts, not feelings.”

“Then how was Jonah—how were you both, I guess—able to home in on her like that?”

“Jonah was the one sensing where she was, and I really think it was that blood connection. Maybe just because it's such an incredibly rare type of blood, and only the two of them have it here. We've always thought of our blood as simply the blood we were born with, nothing more. But now . . . I think maybe Bishop is going to have to add a few new suggestions for the scientists to study.”

“But you're sure you're all right?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” She frowned as they heard thunder again. “I'm
really hoping we don't get a nasty storm, though. It'll be hard to see even slashes on trees if the rain is falling hard enough.”

Luke got up and headed for one of the computer stations. “I'm going to check the weather. And then I'm going to have one of the analysts
really
dig into the backgrounds of these six people. And Jonah's as well.”

“Oh, he's not going to like that.”

“He will if we can point him to the unsub.”

“Especially before dark. What time is it, anyway?”

“A bit after three,” Lucas said, glancing at the clock on the computer's toolbar.

“Does it feel to you like we've been here a week?”

“At least. Hmmm. Storm's all around us, but I'm not sure if we'll actually get wet.”

“We'll hope it stays away at least until Jonah finds Nessa.”

Lucas looked over at her curiously. “You're certain he will.”

“Yeah. Those two are connected. I have no idea if either will decide to use the connection, or even explore it. The difference in their ages is going to keep Jonah at more than arm's length, and I'm not sure Nessa wants to be . . . different . . . from her friends. She's at that age.”

Luke nodded, then returned his attention to the computer screen. “You covered the camera with tape again, didn't you?”

“Yes. We know hackers can remote-activate those cameras. I don't like not knowing if someone is watching.”

Lucas sighed but didn't remove the tape from the computer's camera. Instead, he talked to the technical analyst he could see, rapidly giving him all the names and information he had on the missing people—and on Jonah.

“You want everything I can dig up?” the tech asked.

“Everything. On every one of them.”

“Gotcha. I'll be back when I have something.”

Luke turned in his chair to find Samantha wandering around the room. Except that the wandering looked like pacing. “What is it?”

“I'm not sure. I just have a bad feeling.”

“Nessa?”

“No, actually. I think Jonah is going to find her, and that she'll be in pretty good shape, all things considered.”

“Then, what?”

“This thing started long before we got here. And it's pretty obvious that whoever this unsub is, he has a connection to Jonah. Or to one of the people Jonah saved. It just doesn't make sense any other way.”

“Okay. So?”

“He tried to get in my head—we think—and failed. He got into Robbie's head and mixed up her memories. He got into Sarah's head and
gave
her new memories.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“To test us maybe?”

“Well . . . granted we've barely been here twenty-four hours, hard as that is to believe, but a lot has happened. If he's testing anybody, I'd think it was Jonah. Now, maybe he doesn't know Jonah is a latent; you have to be a pretty strong psychic yourself to pick up latents. Maybe he was probing us to find out if he could use any of us to . . . hurt Jonah.”

“You think that's the point of this? To hurt Jonah?”

“To destroy him, more like. We've both seen how connected he is to this town. If there's somebody out there who is convinced—
delusional or sane—that Jonah has somehow wronged him, then all this has to be happening for that reason.

“Did Nessa get away because she was able to—or because he let her? If there
is
a trail back to where the others were kept, what will we find? Nessa heard them breathing. You haven't picked up on any fear, so I'm betting he's keeping them sedated. But not so he can control them. I think he's keeping them like that because he knows Jonah's been driving himself into the ground trying to find these people. And when he
does
find them, the others, I think what he finds will be meant to shock and horrify him.”

“Torture?”

“No. Jonah
knows
this town. These people. I think the unsub wants to torment Jonah with . . . games. If Jonah finds Nessa, and in finding her is able to find the others, then Jonah wins. But it'll come at a price. The people Jonah cares about are going to be the ones paying the price.”

“Then this isn't over,” Lucas said.

“I think it's just beginning,” Samantha said. “At least as far as the unsub's concerned. And if we don't stop him . . . I think a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

—

DANTE THOUGHT HE
might have slept an hour or three. Surely no longer than that, judging by how he felt. He tried to go back to sleep, but things were tickling at the back of his mind, bothering him, and sleep just wouldn't come. Finally, he got up and showered and shaved. Pulled on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, since he wasn't supposed to be back on the clock until midnight.

He was hoping that if he ordered just the right snack from room service, maybe it would help him sleep. Maybe.

Anything was worth a try.

He walked into the common area of the two-bedroom suite, surprised to find Robbie standing at one of the windows, looking out.

“You should be asleep,” he said, adding immediately, “Did I hear it thunder a little while ago?”

“Yes, you did.”

She turned to face him, wearing a hotel robe, her hair piled on top of her head as though in preparation for a shower.

The gun was . . . extra.

Dante had never had a gun pointed at him like that, not for real, not by somebody he knew whose face was all . . . wrong.

“Robbie—”

“Good-bye, Dante.”

The gun went off with an ungodly roar, Dante felt something like a two-by-four slam into his chest, and then everything went dark.

Robbie stumbled back from Dante's doorway, shocked through to her bones. It took her several minutes to get her heart to slow down, but her hands were still shaking when she examined her gun. It didn't smell as if it had been fired. She removed the clip and found it full of ammo. Chamber empty.

She wanted to put the gun back in its holster but held it just in case as she slowly eased open the door of Dante's bedroom.

He was sound asleep. Snoring. Clearly one of those restless sleepers, he was sprawled across the bed diagonally with the covers bunched oddly here and there but decently covering him.

After a long moment of listening to him, alive and breathing, Robbie eased the door shut and went back out into the sitting area of their suite.

She had only slept a few brief hours, but she had the feeling she'd never sleep again. She didn't want to ever sleep again.

A
puppet
, a goddamned puppet, that was what that slimy son of a bitch they were after had turned her into. It didn't matter that he had, apparently, brainwashed her into getting up, getting her gun, and making it as far as Dante's door—but had not been able to force her to do his bidding.

No, that didn't matter. She'd shoot herself before she would shoot a teammate.

But he had
still
gotten into her head, messed with her mind, her memories, making her believe she had shot and killed her partner. And he had done that because he had
not
been able to make her actually do it.

Robbie hesitated only a moment. She took that moment to shore up her shields, trying to make them stronger than they had ever been before. She took a quick shower and got dressed, pulled her still-damp hair back in a hasty ponytail, hesitated for a moment before clipping her gun to the belt of her jeans, then scribbled a quick note to Dante and left the suite.

Their hotel served food twenty-four-seven
and
kept a generous selection of fruit, cheese, and crackers just inside the main floor dining room all afternoon until dinnertime, but she paused only to get coffee in one of the cardboard cups. She had no idea what had been going on at their command center, and didn't pause near the police station even though there seemed to be a lot of activity going on in there.

She thought it seemed dim for midafternoon, and glanced up to see the heavily overcast sky. And hear, faintly, thunder rumble.

Great. A storm. As a general rule, storms weren't kind to psychics.

She walked into the makeshift command center, finding Lucas
and Samantha working. Lucas was at one of the computer stations, and Samantha was studying the evidence boards.

Without so much as a greeting, Robbie slammed the door behind her, and said, “I want this fucker
dead
.”

—

HE WAS GLAD
he had found a private place to do his work. No more alleys where passersby could discover him. Besides, it was still daylight—albeit overcast gray daylight. But the storage shed, as close as he had been able to get to the hotel without risking discovery, was sorely lacking in creature comforts, and he found himself lying on a wrinkled, dirty tarp that smelled of turpentine and seemed to have several small chunks of lumber underneath.

His head hurt.

His head hurt
so much
.

It was dim in the shed, but he felt the wetness on his face, under his nose, and knew it wasn't tears. Blood.

He tried to use the tarp to help stop the bleeding, but it was rough and stank and seemed to make him bleed more. Just like he bled more when he tried to move, to sit up.

He could hear it thundering and wished the storm would hurry and get here. They made him feel better, storms. Made him feel . . . stronger. At least since the accident.

The dark usually helped him as well, but not this time. This time, he had pushed too hard, tried too hard.

“Bitch,” he whispered. “I'll get you next time. I'll be ready for you next time. Bitch . . .”

—

BOTH SAMANTHA AND
Lucas turned to stare at Robbie after her rather violent entrance, perhaps a bit startled but no more than that. Taking unusual things calmly was one of the requirements to be an SCU agent.

“What's happened, Robbie?” Sam asked.

“I just came out of a waking nightmare.” Robbie couldn't be still, so she paced. “It seemed as real as this is. Only in that waking nightmare, I was standing by the window in our sitting room, and when Dante came in, I turned around and shot him. Killed him. You want to take my gun? I wish you'd take my gun.”

Sam was frowning slightly. “He already knew he could mess with your mind, change your memories. Why would he give you the memory of killing Dante?”

“Just for jollies?” Robbie was in no mood for speculation but gave it a shot. “I think he tried to make me actually do it. When I came out of it, I was standing outside Dante's bedroom door, in a robe, holding my gun. So he'd gotten me that far. I really think he believed he could make me kill my partner.”

“But you didn't,” Sam reminded her quietly.

“No, I didn't. Not this time. But when he couldn't make me actually do it, he made me believe I had. He
really
made me believe I had.” Robbie wasn't the crying sort of woman, but her eyes glistened with tears she wouldn't shed. “And how can I trust myself now? Around any of you? As long as this son of a bitch is alive, how can I trust myself?”

“Were you asleep or already up?” Luke asked.

Robbie didn't even have to think about that. “I'd been asleep.
Sleeping hard, because I was tired. When I came back to myself, I was standing at his door. I had my gun, but I was still dressed for bed in a sleepshirt, with a hotel robe over it.”

“So maybe it was an experiment,” Sam said. “To find out if it was easier for him to get into her head, influence her, if she was asleep when he tried. If he's been watching us, he must know we've split shifts. It doesn't seem to be working out very well, since you barely slept and Dante should be here any minute, but the unsub could have seen you two go into the hotel hours ago.”

Robbie blinked. “Dante's coming?”

“Yeah. And I wouldn't be surprised if he's nearly as shaken as you are.”

“Why? He was asleep.”

Sam opened her mouth to reply, but Dante came in just then, not slamming the door as Robbie had, but not exactly calmly. He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, his hair still damp from the shower, and he was rubbing the center of his chest with one hand.

He looked immediately at Robbie. “I had the most vivid fucking nightmare. You shot me. Only it wasn't really you.”

Before Robbie could speak, Lucas held up a hand. “What do you mean it wasn't really her?”

“It was . . . her face was like the missing people we watched on the videos. Like the face of a doll. No expression. No life. Creepy as hell, though not as creepy as seeing—and feeling—her shoot me. I mean, I got shot once; it was just a graze, but I remember how it felt. This was like that, only much, much more painful.”

“More than a dream,” Robbie muttered. “That bastard got into our heads again.”

Dante frowned. “First time for me.”

“You were asleep,” Sam told him. “More vulnerable even with that strong shield. Especially since he can't seem to aim his energy very well.”

“Really?” Robbie said. “He aimed it at me pretty well.”

It was Lucas who said, “I doubt he meant Dante to know anything at all. It was you he was after, Robbie, you he'd already left . . . bread crumbs to follow. You he wanted to be able to control. What Dante got was . . . spillover.”

“Vivid spillover,” Dante muttered. “I swear my chest hurts like hell.”

Dryly, Sam said to him, “Power of suggestion. Robbie was convinced she'd shot and killed you, and she's a telepath. She doesn't usually broadcast, but in moments of extreme stress . . .”

“I have been known to,” Robbie admitted, with an apologetic grimace to her partner. “Sorry.” Then she frowned. “I don't like the way this bastard is playing with our minds. My mind. And why's he fixated on me?”

Musing, Luke said, “It could be yours is the only ability he really understands, or believes he does. Close to what he has himself; any kind of true mind control or mind influence has to begin with telepathy. Or it could be he wants to control you for some reason we don't yet know.”

“We need to figure that out,” Robbie told him. “And I mean soon. I catch him in my head again, I'll give him
more
than a headache or nosebleed.”

Dante said, “You can do that?”

“She's not supposed to,” Lucas said.

“Oh, tell me Bishop wouldn't approve, destroying a monster like this one. Besides, it'd be self-defense.”

“That's a report I'd like to read,” Sam murmured.

“I'm still in the dark,” Dante complained. “You could destroy him? As in—kill him? With your mind?”

Earnestly, Robbie said, “I'd have to be touching him physically. And I'd have to be
really
pissed off.”

“And if you were?”

“Well . . . ever get hold of your daddy's shotgun and shoot a pumpkin or watermelon when you were a kid just to see what would happen?”

“Yeah.”

“Something like that.” Robbie seemed very calm.

Dante was rather glad she was calm. He looked at Lucas. “When I joined the unit, I was told that psychic abilities couldn't be used as weapons except defensively.”

Sam murmured, “Read the fine print. That's
shouldn't
be used as weapons except defensively.”

“Sam.”

“Well, it's true. Look, we don't have many psychics in the unit either powerful enough or with enough control to actually be able to hurt somebody else. And, like Robbie said, she has to be enraged, completely out of control. That's not only not her normal state, it's almost unheard of.”

Reassuringly to her partner, Robbie said, “And Bishop taught me a lot about control. So did Miranda. I've never killed anybody with
my mind.” She paused, then added, “Blew the hell out of some pumpkins and watermelons, though.”

Dante sat down at the conference table. “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

Robbie sort of waved the hand not holding her coffee at him, and said to Luke and Sam, “With all due deference to Dante's uneasiness, I'm way more concerned with our unsub and his apparent ability to waltz in and out of my mind whenever he wants.”

“It might not be so easy for him,” Lucas pointed out.

“I don't know if it was easy for him or hard, but I don't want him in my head again,
ever
,” Robbie snapped—if quietly.

“Calm down,” Sam said quietly. “There's no way in hell you'd ever deliberately shoot your partner. If this unsub made a try for that, I'm guessing he ended up just as you expected, with a pounding headache and probably a nosebleed. At least. If he's relatively new to his abilities, he could have ended up with a lot worse. But whatever he was trying, all he could really do was what he did before. Plant a few memories in your head. Probably quick and brief ones.”

—

HE COULDN'T GET
the bleeding stopped for the longest time, and that frightened him, even though he didn't want to admit it.

Only cowards were afraid, and he was no coward.

He finally tore strips from his shirt and stuffed them up inside his nose. The plugs kept the blood from streaming down over his now-torn shirt, but he had to breathe through his mouth, and every time he swallowed he tasted blood.

That was . . . unpleasant.

And he suspected there was something badly wrong with his head. It hurt, of course, maybe worse than it had ever hurt before, but . . . the lumps. They had been there before, of course, but when he put his hands up to feel, he realized there were new bulges. He wondered if that was what happened when a brain grew beyond the capacity of a skull to hold it.

Would the skull crack, eventually? Or would it continue to bulge, as his bulged?

That could be a problem.

Still, he was utterly committed to his plan, and just as utterly convinced it would work. First he would finish punishing Jonah, that was paramount. Because it was all Jonah's
fault
, and he had to pay.

Choices. It was all about choices.

Every choice had a price.

And Jonah would pay. Because when the girl had escaped, all according to plan, she had unknowingly stepped on a pressure plate, and that would set it all in motion.

Jonah would be first through the doorway, if he knew Jonah. And he did. He'd be first through, and he'd see what was waiting for him. The punishment that was worse than being shot or killed; those were too quick.

This . . . this would haunt Jonah Riggs forever.

—

ROBBIE THOUGHT ABOUT
it, then sat down heavily in one of the chairs at the conference table across from Dante, obviously still more
shaken than she wanted to admit. “It seemed so real. So unbelievably fucking real.” Then she looked around, suddenly realizing. “Where's Jonah? Wasn't he supposed to be working with you guys?”

Sam filled her in on what had been happening, finishing, “He left about an hour ago, so—”

Before she could finish, Jonah came into the command center. He looked windblown, but the relief on his face told them all they really needed to know.

“How is Nessa?” Sam asked anyway.

“In pretty good shape. Cuts and scrapes on her bare feet, and I doubt she'll ever sleep in a dark room again, but Doc says she'll be fine with enough rest and good food.”

“He didn't hurt her?”

“No. She doesn't remember him even touching her. Though she was out at first, so . . . still possible, I guess. She wanted a shower, and Doc had a quiet word with her; he doesn't believe she was molested or suffered any kind of sexual attack.”