Inked Magic (7 page)

Parker tensed, then immediately rid himself of it with a roll of his shoulders. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get in and get out and nobody will be the wiser. Besides, the others have all done shift work. There’s no reason to think she’ll come to this guy’s attention.”

“Your call,” Trent said.
Your sister.

She relinquished the pad and pencils, not asking about what kind of predator she fit the victim profile for. That was part of her détente with Parker, and she’d know the answer by morning anyway.

They entered the hospital. Reflexively she shoved her hands into her pockets. Partly in self-defense, partly so the material of her jeans would absorb the sweat from her palms as the impression of narrowing hallways made her feel panicked and claustrophobic.

Voices echoed in her ears, conversations around her competing with the sound of her pounding heart. Parker’s fingers encircled her upper arm, steadying her, a comforting presence despite the minefield that was their relationship.

In a private home, she wouldn’t have needed it. But in hospitals, always.

They reached the intensive care unit. A nurse looked up, her eyes lingering on Etaín, her curiosity evident.

“Any change?” Parker asked, drawing her attention to him.

Curiosity faded into a pinched, serious expression. “No.”

“Has her family arrived?”

The nurse’s gaze returned to Etaín. “Not yet. I’m not sure, but I think it could be any time now.”

“Thanks,” Parker said, taking a step and subtly blocking Etaín
from continued scrutiny as he guided her forward. “We won’t be long.”

The moment it became clear which room they were heading for, Etaín
knew
what case her brother was working on. There could only be one if she fit the victim profile and so did the black woman lying on the bed.

The Harlequin Rapist, that’s what the news media had started calling the man terrorizing the Bay Area. He abducted both white and black victims, holding them for days and leaving behind a distinctive set of injuries, though the police wouldn’t elaborate on just what they were.

Etaín’s stomach cramped at the obvious signs of torture. The woman’s fingers had all been broken, as had her wrists and arms. The bones were immobilized but cast-free because the skin was burned, the open wounds forming a random pattern among old tattoos.

As horrible as those injuries were, and that the woman had been repeatedly raped, the damage done to her head was far, far worse. She’d been beaten so severely that her jaw was wired shut and her face swollen. Her skull was misshapen and her eyes moved constantly, rolling flashes of white without connection, seemingly without sight or sentience.

“Is this what he did to the others?” Etaín asked, forcing the words out in a whisper and wondering why her brother had waited so long to ask for her help.

It was Trent who answered, keeping his voice low. “Everything is the same except for the beating. We don’t know whether he’s escalating, or whether she saw something he was afraid would identify him.”

Parker’s hand tightened on Etaín’s arm in furious determination. “The profiler thinks leaving the victims alive to remember and relive what’s been done to them is more satisfying than killing them. If they die, then they win and he loses.”

“If they die
while he’s got them
,” Trent said, qualifying Parker’s
statement. “He dumped her where she’d be found quickly. The doctors say her brain function is severely impaired.”

Etaín didn’t ask what the prognosis was. Her presence here was answer enough. They didn’t expect the woman to recover enough to tell them anything useful or serve as a witness.

Nothing they might learn from this visit would ever be entered into the records as evidence. That was the cost of her gift. She didn’t understand the why or the how, but she did know willfully taking the memories and images seemed to erase them from a victim’s mind, or permanently block them.

The men halted in the doorway, obscuring the sight of the hospital bed and patient from the nurses’ station.

Etaín kept moving, stopping next to the Harlequin Rapist’s victim. Dreading what was to come and gathering herself to get through it.

“What’s her name?”

“Tyra Nelson,” Parker said.

Etaín wasn’t certain she’d be able to help. Always before the victims had been traumatized but
present
, something Tyra gave no sign of being. She looked at Tyra’s bare arm and shoulder, trying to find a place where touch would bring the least pain.

There wasn’t one. And perhaps in the end, the pain would be necessary for the memories to come.

Skin didn’t lie. Not to her.

Etaín touched the eye on the palm of her left hand against a clustered patch of burns on Tyra’s shoulder, to raw, oozing wounds. And then the eye on her right palm above Tyra’s shattered wrist.

Tyra flinched and whimpered, then lay passive. Leaving Etaín with the sense that what remained of who Tyra had been had retreated further.

“Show me what happened,” Etaín whispered. A command. A refrain she repeated, becoming more insistent as the minutes ticked by and the silence grew heavy and oppressive.

She knew her gift was working when the waves of nausea began. Her psyche protesting—fighting against the horror seeping into her subconscious—trying to drive her up and away, as if by purging the contents of her stomach she could expell the images before they took form, becoming a nightmare that would soon seem as if it were her own reality.

The only sign of relief Tyra gave was the calming of her eyes. When brown irises stared out through slit lids, unmoving though still unfocused, Etaín broke the contact, one thought dominating, to get to the bathroom before she threw up.

Parker was already moving forward, hand reaching out, grasping her upper arm as she turned away from the bed. “Next to the nurse’s station,” he said, anticipating her need, knowing she refused to vomit in front of a victim.

He propelled her toward the doorway and through it, like a missile locked onto a target. Clammy sweat coated her skin. The area around her telescoped in, defined by the sharpness of her focus, the strength of her will.

She reached the toilet and bent over it, vomiting repeatedly. Violent, gut-tearing heaves that caused tears to stream down her face and left her feeling hollowed out and raw.

It took longer for the shakiness to pass. As she left the stall, the nurse who’d answered Parker’s questions when they arrived stepped into the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

Embarrassed heat crept into Etaín’s cheeks. The earlier sounds of retching and the lingering scent were enough to tell the story, if her overall appearance didn’t do it. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

She moved to the sink, fighting against making up an excuse. The less said the better.
Always
.

The nurse lingered near the door, curiosity replacing her concern. As Etaín leaned over, rinsing her mouth and face, the woman said, “I’ve seen you before. At a different hospital.”

Etaín took another mouthful of water so it’d seem less rude when she didn’t answer. She swished it around, drying her face at the same time, the move allowing her to spit then make a quick escape.

The instant she exited the bathroom she whispered, “Let’s get out of here. The nurse recognized me.”

“Fuck,” Parker said when they were inside the elevator. “What did she say? What did
you
say?”

“I said nothing. She said she’d seen me before at a different hospital.”

“Maybe you were visiting a friend?”

Etaín answered with a look.

He exhaled audibly, forcing nonchalance into his posture. “Okay. Nothing we can do now. If Trent and I go back in there and say something to her about keeping your visit under wraps, that’ll only make it a bigger deal.”

Etaín didn’t disagree. The damage was done.

At the hospital entrance Parker placed a hand on her shoulder, halting her and forcing her to turn toward him. “If it’ll help, you can stay at my place tonight. Or I can come to yours.”

She met his eyes, catching a flickering glimpse of emotion that carried her into a past where love came without conditions, and acceptance was a given. Or she imagined it there. Both possibilities made an ache spread in her chest, like the spider web cracking of shatterproof glass. She wanted to believe things could be different between them. Wanted it badly enough not to trust herself to answer any other way than, “I’m fine. I’ll call you if I end up with something on paper.”

“Any time, Etaín. Twenty-four, seven. We’ve got to stop this guy.”

“I know.” She stepped out from under his hand and took her drawing supplies. After saying goodbye to Trent she set a course for the Harley, her thoughts on how she’d keep herself busy for the rest of the evening. As much as she wanted to help them catch the Harlequin Rapist, she dreaded reaching the point of exhaustion necessary to lie
down and go to sleep, because when she did, the nightmares
would
come, Tyra Nelson’s memories becoming her own.

C
athal parked his car and got out. Lake Merced stretched in front of him, the sky above it a purple bruise at sunset.

There was no crime scene tape underneath the trees a short distance away, nothing to indicate two girls had been driven there and left to die.

Not for the first time, he wondered what had compelled those responsible to handle the situation this way.

Guilt? Panic?

Fear of consequences?

Or had it simply been a cold-blooded solution?

He walked to the spot, thinking of Etaín. Did the
why
really matter? Was the crime less heinous if drugs or alcohol had led to terrible acts?

Would anything change if the pictures she drew were of boys Caitlyn and Brianna knew? Sons of neighbors or friends or business associates, instead of complete strangers?

Guilt over using Etaín crept in again. He blocked it with thoughts of Brianna.

On his last visit she’d been glassy-eyed from sedation, her wrists bandaged from an attempted suicide. A private nurse hovered nearby, charged with never leaving Brianna alone.

What was justice for a rapist? His father and uncle would answer one crime with another—murder.

Cathal had rejected their way of life, but the possibility he was the same kind of man scared him. He’d known that in agreeing to approach Etaín, he’d taken the first slippery step downward. But now, as then, his thoughts circled back to the inevitable. What choice did he have?

He could tell Etaín to leave San Francisco and go into hiding. He could advise her to hire round-the-clock protection for as long as his father and uncle were alive.

Only death would stop them from doing whatever it took to find and punish those responsible for drugging and raping Brianna and Caitlyn. Prison might shorten their reach and make it more difficult for them to use Etaín, but it wouldn’t stop them from reaching.

Or he could tell her the truth—and assuming she was related to a cop and went to the authorities, let the FBI or ATF use her in a sting operation so when his father and uncle went to deliver justice, they’d end up in prison, adding more guilt and loss to Brianna’s life while allowing her rapists to go free. But it wasn’t just the consequences for Brianna that made him unwilling to be honest with Etaín.

Frustration came with that acknowledgment. Despite rejecting their way of life, telling her risked betraying his father and uncle, his family. And that part of their code went as deep as his love for them did.

Cathal turned away from the lake, making the same decision he had in his father’s car. This was the
right
thing, the
only
thing he could do, though he understood why he’d come to this place—to shore-up internal defenses that threatened to go up in flames when he was with Etaín.

He wanted her. And the desire to seduce her, to feel her beneath him, her body joined to his, went well beyond what he felt compelled to do on behalf of his family, or to keep her safe.

P
eople waited in a line outside the shelter, trying to get in and claim a bed before the cold descended and fog worked its way inland. Against a wall, a row of shopping carts held salvaged junk and garbage bags containing castoff clothing.

Glaring floodlights illuminated the harsh face of poverty: Parents with babies in arms and older children at their sides. Veterans and the
mentally ill, dumped from institutions after budget cuts. Drunks and addicts whose choices and family histories led to a predictable end.

Etaín drove around back and parked the Harley next to a beat-up Ford. A few steps took her to a back entrance and a knock brought one of the staff members.

“Justine’s in the men’s dormitory,” he said.

She made her way there, traveling down a hallway that had once led to a manufacturing space but was now subdivided into rooms lined with beds, and others with folding tables and chairs.

Justine looked up from talking to a man with stringy brown hair and a meth-addict complexion. Seeing Etaín in the doorway, she finished the conversation and came over. The dense smell of cigar smoke permeated her clothing, sending the message that despite being a petite woman in her sixties, she had balls.

“I need you to do a consult first,” she said.

“Cover-up work?”

“No, one of your special tattoos.”

Etaín shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders, uncomfortable despite having done this kind of work at Justine’s request since she was fifteen.

The dreams that had led to the eyes on her palms, the drugs and rebellion, and to finally running away from home had also led her to Justine, who’d been working a teen outreach program back then. If not for Justine, she might never have discovered this aspect of her gift.

Justine had been the one to notice that when she tattooed empowerment symbols onto some of the kids she ran with, the ones who desperately wanted better lives for themselves, then it happened for them. She’d been the one to order reference books and travelers’ journals documenting how tattoos held power beyond what most people in the Western world recognized. She’d insisted Etaín read the accounts of how monks used secret ink ingredients and symbols along with chants and rituals to imbue power into the charms they tattooed onto skin as part of their temple duties.