Rebecca York (30 page)

"You think they know we're here?"

"I'm not making any assumptions." He crossed the room and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Okay, so you're not very hungry, but you could try and choke down a double cheeseburger with special sauce, french fries, and a Coke."

"Right. More junk food."

While he was gone, she dressed in slacks and a knit shirt, because having her clothing on made her feel less vulnerable. Then she made the bed and straightened the room.

He looked around when he came back and smiled. "Housekeeping again?"

"We both like a neat environment."

"Yeah."

They ate at the table by the window, but she sensed his restlessness during the meal.

You need your own space.

Yeah. Sorry.

She shifted in her seat. Don't apologize. We're both trying to work this out.

He nodded.

"Go to the library."

"Huh?"

The befuddled look on his face made her grin. "Libraries have computers. Maybe you can get into the Net that way."

"You don't mind my leaving you again?"

"You know I mind. But we both need a togetherness break." She said the words. They were a social lie.

He needed a break. She wanted to be with him. But she'd vowed to give him as much independence as she could.

She forced herself to eat half her double burger and most of the fries.

He polished off his french fries, then asked, "You're sure about... my leaving?"

"Yes," she said, keeping her voice strong as she helped him clean up, then wrapped and stuffed the rest of her burger into the minibar.

"Be careful," she added as he went through his notes, selecting what he wanted to take.

"I'm a macho guy. I can handle the library."

She forced a laugh.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours."

When he left the room, she sent her thoughts outward, trying to follow him down the hallway, then out to the car.

She had suggested that they take some time away from each other, but when she lost contact, she had to fight down her panic.

Trying to focus her mind on something else, she lay down and began practicing some of the relaxation exercises she'd learned to use as stress relievers.

* * *

JORDAN felt the connection with Lindsay stretch, then snap, and it was all he could do to stop himself from going back to the motel room, gathering her in his arms, and hanging on tight. He was feeling guilty because he needed the time away from her—and she had given him permission to take that time.

More than that, she'd come up with the perfect excuse. He stopped at the motel desk and asked where he could find the nearest public library with computer access.

Fifteen minutes later he stepped into the building. It was a modern facility, with a computer room that patrons could use. Glad that he had an alternative to his laptop, he used one of the terminals to do a Web search. When he hit the button to call up the reference, he felt his throat tighten painfully. But nothing reached out to choke him as he read an article in a small religious magazine about the twins' faith healing abilities. Did they really have that power? Or were the brother and sister using their psychic mojo to convince people that they felt better?

He read more references to the Trinitys. A minister with a national following had denounced them. Their newly built church was featured in an architectural magazine.

As he read through the article, he kept fighting an uneasy feeling that something bad was waiting to leap out of the shadows at him.

He almost got up and called the motel room. But he hoped Lindsay was sleeping, and he didn't want to wake her up.

Still, the nerve-tingling sensation wouldn't go away. Finally he had to stand up. Once he was on his feet, they carried him toward the door and back to his car.

* * *

LINDSAY knew she was asleep and dreaming. But that didn't stop the fear crackling through her.

This time she saw Mrs. Vanderlin sitting in her fussy old lady's living room, watching a soap opera.

Lindsay saw the woman smile. She had no idea that while she was enjoying Another Dawn, evil forces were gathering around her.

"Run. Get out of the house!" Lindsay shouted, but Mrs. Vanderlin didn't hear the warning, and Lindsay had the sick, awful feeling that she was helpless once more in the face of terrible danger.

In the vision she heard a knock at the door. Mrs. Vanderlin looked up, her face filling with annoyance as she pushed herself awkwardly out of the chair.

The knocking came again, and she called out, "Just a minute."

"No! Don't answer it," Lindsay screamed, but the old woman ignored her. She peered through the spy hole in the door, then turned the bolt.

"Can I help you?"

"I was hoping you could help me find Lindsay Fleming and Jordan Walker."

"They were here this morning."

Without being invited, a man stepped into the hall. "Where are they now?"

"In town. But I don't know which motel."

When the man spun her around and grabbed her arm, she screamed in pain and terror. Ignoring her reaction, he herded her back into the living room. Behind him, another man entered the house.

"You're hurting me," Mrs. Vanderlin whimpered. "Please stop."

"Ease up," the new man told his partner.

"Our orders . .."

"Be nice to the lady."

, Lindsay clawed her way to consciousness. Waves of nausea rolled through her as she sat up in bed, clutching handfuls of the sheet. "Oh, God, no," she gasped.

This was like what had happened with Sid—and with Leonard Hamilton. She'd seen they were in trouble. Only this time, she was sure it hadn't happened yet. It was in the future. She could still save Mrs. Vanderlin, if she got there in time.

Jordan! she screamed inside her head. Jordan, can you hear me? I have to go over there and get her out of the house.

Snatching the phone off the bedside table, she called the desk. "I have to leave the motel and take care of a sick friend. I'll be downstairs in a few minutes. Can you call me a cab?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Luck."

For a moment she blanked on the name. Then she remembered that was the last name Jordan had used when he'd registered.

She was about to jam her feet into sandals. Then she pictured herself holding Mrs. Vanderlin's arm and hurrying her away. So she dug out socks and tennis shoes and got them on.

She was downstairs minutes later, pacing back and forth under the covered entryway, wishing she could just steal a car and leave. If she could have run to Mrs. Vanderlin's house, she would have done it. But she was too far away for that.

* * *

THE sense of dread increased, making Jordan's mind feel like a lump of plastic explosives about to detonate. He was halfway back to the motel when he thought he heard a scream inside his head.

His foot jerked on the gas pedal, then pressed down hard as he sped back to Lindsay. But he had to slow down abruptly when he saw a cop car from the corner of his eye.

Keeping within the speed limit was agony. Then he blinked as he turned into the motel driveway.

A cab was several hundred feet in front of him. Lindsay leaped across the sidewalk and climbed in.

He wanted to roll down his window and shout at her, but it was already too late. The vehicle lurched off, leaving him sick and shaky.

Lindsay!

She didn't respond.

What the hell was she doing?

Lindsay? Lindsay? Where are you going?

Either she couldn't hear him, or she didn't want to answer. He stayed behind the cab, then lost the vehicle as it roared through a yellow light.

"Christ!" He sat in her car, gripping the wheel, every nerve in his body screaming with tension. What was she doing—running out on him?

Even as he asked the question, he knew that was impossible. She wouldn't run away from him. They needed each other.

When the light changed, he sped in the direction in which the cab had disappeared. The landmarks looked familiar, and all at once he was pretty sure he knew where she was going in such a hurry—back to Mrs. Vanderlin's house.

But why?

Lindsay! he shouted in his mind. Lindsay!

To his relief, he got back a faint reply.

Jordan?

What are you doing?

Mrs. Vanderlin. They're coming .. . They . . .

The words cut off, and he screamed aloud in frustration. "Lindsay—what? Tell me!"

Wait outside for me. I'll bring her out. We have to get her away.

Ahead of him the cab pulled to a stop. Lindsay jumped out and rushed up the steps.

Wait.

I can't. Don't you understand, we put... in danger. Like we . . . Sid in danger. . . Like . . . Hamilton.

The words were disjointed, and he knew he wasn't getting everything she was thinking at him. But he got the gist.

Leonard Hamilton put himself in danger. he silently shouted back at her. But she wasn't paying attention.

His heart in his throat, he pulled into the driveway and slammed out of his own car. No way was he waiting outside.

He was pelting across the lawn when he heard Lindsay scream. Not out loud. In his head.

God, no! Lindsay? What's wrong? Sweetheart, answer me!

Fear threatened to swallow him whole. Desperately he ran toward the side door of the house and charged inside.

A man was standing in the kitchen, holding on to Lindsay's arm.

He leaped toward them, the only thought in his mind to get her out of there. Before he reached them, another man charged into the kitchen.

He raised a strange-looking gun and fired. Something hit Jordan in the shoulder. Not a bullet. Something with a red streamer attached. He kept going, trying to get to Lindsay, but instead he dropped to the kitchen floor—then dropped into blackness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

JORDAN WAS IN a warm, safe place. A cabin in the woods, like where he and Lindsay had first made love.

Only this was better. It was their home. A place far away from civilization, where they could focus on each other and practice their gifts. He had a lot of money saved. And a new career. He was writing a spy novel under a pseudonym. And his agent had already gotten him a huge advance—based on a proposal.

But right now he was thankful to be lying in Lindsay's lap so she could stroke his aching head.

He had ... hurt himself. He didn't know how. But her touch was the only comfort in ...

... in a dark, cold place. His throat tightened. He wasn't in a cabin in the woods. He was ...

He was somewhere .. . bad.

But Lindsay was with him. Stroking his head. Calling his name. Desperate for comfort, he curled into her warmth.

Jordan, are you all right? Jordan, wake up. You have to wake up. You have to let me know you're all right. Her voice sounded urgent—and far away.

He was still asleep. And he wanted to stay that way. Because sleep was his refuge.

Jordan, I need you. The sheer terror in her voice focused his attention.

Still, it was difficult to make himself come back to the world, because he knew he was going to hate what he discovered. He was lying on a cold, hard surface. Like a shelf.

Jordan. Please. Oh, God, Jordan.

He forced his eyes open a crack—because he couldn't let Lindsay down. The light was dim, and he tried to figure out where he was.

Some instinct told him not to move. Not to let anyone know he was awake. He wasn't sure why that was important, but he sensed the truth.

His brain processed the unfamiliar surroundings. He was lying on a narrow bunk—in a small concrete room. A cell. And he was alone, he realized with a start. Lindsay wasn't there. He had just dreamed her presence because he needed her so badly. As he took in her absence, stark emotions clawed at his insides.

Instantly she caught his feelings. Again her voice came to him.

No. I'm here. In your mind.

Thank God! The relief was enormous, but he couldn't allow himself to relax. What happened?

He felt the voice inside his head falter. Men... captured us at Mrs. Vanderlin's house. It's my fault.

I'm so sorry. I thought I was in time .. . but I wasn't.

Not. . . your fault.

I should have known I couldn't save her.

Christ! She's . . .

Maybe dead. I don't know for sure. They hit her. Probably the news will say we robbed and beat her.

That poor lady. She was so thrilled to see us. And we brought the devil's spawn to her door.

He winced at her words. Memories came back like a rush of dirty water down a drainpipe.

They shot me . . .

With a tranq gun, I think.

Yeah. That sounds right.

The fog was lifting from his brain. With the clarity came amazement. He and Lindsay were speaking mind to mind, and he didn't even know where she was.

Emergency powers? she suggested.

He knew better than to laugh—since any movement made his head throb.

Doggedly he forced himself to think. He wanted to sit up and stretch, but he stayed where he was, because probably someone was watching to see when he woke up—so they could come in here and ...

He caught the gasp in Lindsay's mind.

We won't let them kill us. Even as he offered the reassurance, he wondered what their chances were.

"Shit!" he murmured. I wish I could lie to you.

Yeah. Inconvenient to be joined at the . . . brain.

Now who's cracking jokes?

They could joke to cheer each other up, but they were in deep kimchee. He winced again as she picked up the thought.

He was parched with thirst, but he ignored the sensation.

You know who has us?

Crandall, I think.

She had come into his mind, helping him return to reality. Now he felt her deep, gut-wrenching fear.

You're doing good.

I'm scared.

We both are. But together we're stronger than they are. That's our ace in the hole. They both knew he was trying to comfort her. But they could both pretend that the death squad wasn't going to swoop down on them. How come they didn't tranq you? he asked.

I think they figured that putting you out was good enough. I think they figure they're safe if they keep us separated.