Sense of Evil (13 page)

Rafe followed. “What do you mean by that?”

“I make you nervous. Admit it.”

“I’ve known you barely twenty-four hours,” Rafe retorted. “That isn’t enough time to get used to a woman’s perfume, let alone the fact that she knows without looking what kind of shorts you happen to be wearing.”

Isabel chuckled. “Okay, you win that round.”

Rafe thought it was about time he won one. “Is Hollis all right?”

“She will be, I think. This time. But if she doesn’t get a handle on her abilities pretty fast, things are just going to get harder for her.”

“I’d think talking to dead people would never get easier.”

“No, from all I’m told, that part doesn’t. It takes an exceptionally powerful medium with a strong sense of self to open that door and yet remain detached—and protected—from all the emotional and spiritual energy pouring through.”

“Protected?”

Isabel paused in the kitchen, running a hand lightly along the immaculate granite countertops. The usual small appliances were scattered about: toaster, blender, coffeemaker. “She didn’t cook much.”

“Not according to what her family and friends said, no. A lot of takeout. What do you mean about a medium needing to protect herself?”

“Or himself. It’s not a gender-specific ability, you know.”

“I stand corrected.
Are
there any gender-specific abilities?”

“Not as far as we know.”

“Okay. What did you mean about the medium protecting him- or herself?”

Isabel left the kitchen and went down the short hallway to the bedroom. She stood in the center, looking around. “A medium is the most vulnerable of all psychics to what you called possession. They’re the ones who open the doors angry or desperate spirits usually need in order to return to this plane of existence. And the nearest potential host when the spirit comes through.”

“
Usually
need?”

“We’ve theorized that an unusually powerful spirit could make its own doorway, if it were determined enough. So far, though, our experience has been that mediums or latent mediums provide the doorways.”

“I can’t believe I’m talking about this. Listening to this.”

She looked at him, smiling faintly. “This stuff has always been with us, always been a part of our lives. For most of us, it was simply a case of not seeing what was there. Who knew there were protons and electrons until we found them? Who knew germs were responsible for illnesses until somebody figured it out? Who knew even fifty years ago that we had a chance in hell of mapping the human genome?”

“I get the point,” Rafe said. “Still, this is—or at least feels—different.”

“It’s human. And one day, eventually, science will catch up, figure out a way to define, measure, and analyze, and make us legit.”

“It’s just . . . it’s difficult to wrap my mind around it.”

“I know, but you have to.” Isabel walked over to the bed and rested a hand on it, frowning. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Get used to it. Here endeth the lesson.”

Rafe accepted the mild rebuke with a nod. “Okay. Though I do reserve the right to ask questions if anything unusual happens right in front of me.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

He had to smile a little at her dry tone. “Picking up anything useful here?”

Touch me there . . . like that . . .

Harder . . .

Christ, you feel good . . .

Years of practice enabled Isabel to keep her face expressionless, but it was unexpectedly difficult with Rafe’s eyes on her. He had very dark eyes, and there was something very compelling in them. She hadn’t expected that.

Hadn’t expected him.

“This is where she kept her sex straight. A few male lovers over the years. No women.”

“So you think the room in the pictures was hers? One of the properties she owned? A place she kept separate and secret for those . . . encounters?”

“Seems likely. She led a very traditional life here, so obviously her secret life was kept a thing apart. Really a thing apart; there are no secrets at all here. In fact, I’m more than a little surprised Emily found the photo box in this apartment.”

“Unless Jamie had lost her most recent lover and hadn’t yet found another. In that case, she might have needed to look at those pictures.”

Isabel smiled. “You’d make a fair profiler, know that?”

Rafe was more than a little startled. “I was just guessing, that’s all.”

“What do you think profilers do? We make guesses. Mostly educated guesses, and for some of us occasionally psychic ones, but at the end of the day they’re still guesses. Speculation based on experience, knowledge of criminals and how their minds work, that sort of thing. A good profiler probably gets sixty to seventy-five percent right if he or she is especially tuned in to a particular subject. A good psychic with solid control gets, maybe, forty to sixty percent in hits.”

“Is that your percentage?”

She shrugged. “More or less.”

He decided not to try to pin her down on that; he had a feeling it was one he wouldn’t win. He hadn’t known Isabel Adams an hour before reaching the conclusion that she was extremely unlikely to let slip by accident anything she didn’t want him to know.

Isabel said, “We have to find the box or that room. Both, preferably. I need to know how Jamie felt about her secret life, really felt about it. And I’m getting nothing about that here.”

“So you’re getting no sense of a secret hiding place my people missed?”

“No sense of anything secret. I mean at all; this lady obviously knew how to compartmentalize her life. This was her public self, what the world was allowed to see. All bright and shiny and picture-perfect. We know her public self. We need to know her private self.”

Rafe frowned as he followed her from the room. “Do you believe Jamie was targeted because of her sexual preferences? Because she was a dominatrix?”

“I don’t know. It’s about relationships, I’m sure of that. Somehow, it’s about relationships. I’m having a hard time seeing Jamie’s sexuality, or even the S&M games, as the trigger, that’s all. Given his history. But it’s the only thing hidden in Jamie’s day-to-day life, and that means we have to be sure how much it means.”

“Makes sense.”

“So we need to find that room. And we need to find it quickly. It’s been four days since he killed Tricia Kane; even if he waits a full week between murders, we only have three days to find him and stop him before another woman dies.”

And before Isabel moved up on the hit list, Rafe thought but didn’t say.

“You think he’s stalking her now?” he asked instead.

“He’s watching her. Thinking about what he’s going to do to her. Imagining how it’s going to feel. Anticipating.” She was surprised that after all these years and so many similar investigations, it could still make her skin crawl.

But it wasn’t just the fact of this killer, she knew that. It wasn’t even what he had done to his victims. It was him. What she felt in him. Something twisted and evil crouching in the shadows, waiting to spring forward.

She could almost smell the brimstone.

Almost.

“Isabel—”

“Not now, Rafe.” For the first time, there was a hint of vulnerability in her slightly twisted smile. “I’m not ready to talk about that evil face I saw. Not to you. Not yet.”

“Just tell me this much. Does it have something to do with you becoming psychic?”

“It had everything to do with it.” Her smile twisted even more. “The universe has an ironic sense of humor, I’ve noticed. Or maybe just an innate sense of justice. Because sometimes evil creates the tool that will help destroy it.”

Cheryl had planned to drive back to Columbia for the night, especially after Dana’s warning, but something was bugging her. It had been bugging her all day, ever since she’d noticed it early this morning.

She had her cameraman wait for her in the van and went to check it out, telling herself she’d be safe; it wasn’t even dark yet, for God’s sake. Of course, telling herself was one thing, and feeling it something else entirely.

Every time the breeze stirred it felt like somebody touching her with a ghostly hand, and she caught herself looking back over her shoulder more than once.

Nothing there, naturally. No one there.

The whole thing was just her imagination, probably. Because it didn’t make sense, not if she’d seen what she thought she had. Not if it meant—

A hand touched her shoulder, and Cheryl whirled around with a gasp. “Oh, Jesus. Scare a person, why don’t you?”

“Did I? Sorry about that.”

“You of all people should know—”

“I do. Like I said, sorry. What’re you doing out here?”

“Just following up a hunch. I’m sure the rest of you saw it, but it’s been bugging me, so . . . here I am.”

“You really shouldn’t be out by yourself.”

“I know, I know. But I’m not a blonde. And I hate it when something bugs me. So it seemed like a risk worth taking.”

“Just for a story?”

“Well,” Cheryl said self-consciously, “that’s part of it, sure. The story. And maybe to stop him. I mean, it would be so cool if I could help stop him.”

“Do you really believe your hunch could do that?”

“You never know. I could get lucky.”

“Or unlucky.”

“What’re you—”

“Not a blonde. But nosy just like they are. And you’ll tell. I really can’t let that happen.”

Cheryl saw the knife, but by the time understanding clicked into place in her head, it was too late to scream.

Too late to do anything at all.

Friday, 11:30 PM

Just occasionally, whenever her day had been particularly stressful, Mallory was so wild in bed that it took everything Alan had just to keep up with her.

Friday night was like that.

She held him with her arms, her legs, her body, as though he might escape her. The pillows were shoved off the bed, and the sheets tangled around them, and still they wrestled and rolled and held on to each other. They finished, finally, with Mallory on top, riding him fiercely, one hand on his chest and the other braced behind her on his leg, grinding her loins to his in a hard, hungry, rhythmic dance.

He held her hips, surging up to meet her, his gaze fixed on the magnificence of her face taut in primitive need, her eyes darkened, her lithe, toned body glowing with life and exertion.

When she finally came with a cry, shuddering, he spent in almost the same instant, feeling her inner muscles spasming, milking him dry.

Usually, at that point Mallory rolled off him to lie at his side, however briefly, but this time he held on and shifted their bodies himself so that they lay on their sides, facing each other. He kept his arms around her.

“Good,” she murmured, relaxed at least for the moment. “That was . . . good.”

Drained himself, Alan nevertheless consciously tried to control the moment, his hand stroking her back in a soothing motion, enjoying the sensation of her warm breath against his neck. “More than good.” He knew better than to comment on her passion, knowing from experience that it would only cause her to draw away, to start making excuses for leaving.

He had never figured out if it was the intimacy of the act that bothered Mallory when she allowed herself to think about it, or was reminded of it, or if it was her own lack of control that disturbed her. Either way, he was careful not to push that particular button.

He had learned.

“Long day,” he murmured finally, intentionally keeping his voice as easy and soothing as his hands.

“Very long.” She sounded a little sleepy. She moved just a bit against him, but closer, and sighed. “And a longer one tomorrow. God, I’m tired.”

He didn’t say anything, but continued to stroke her back gently even after he knew she had fallen asleep. He held her close and caressed her warm, silky skin, and felt her heart beat against his. And it was enough. For now.

A storm woke him before dawn, and Mallory was gone.

She hadn’t even left a note on the fucking pillow.

7

Saturday, June 14, 6:30 AM

H
E WOKE UP with blood on his hands.

Wet blood.

Fresh blood.

The pungent, coppery smell of it was thick and heavy in the room, and he gagged as he stumbled from the bed and into the bathroom. He didn’t bother to turn on the light even though the room was dim, just turned on the taps and fumbled for soap, washing his hands in the hottest water he could stand, soaping again and again.

The water, first bright red and then rusty-colored, swirled around the drain and slowly, so slowly, grew fainter and fainter. Like the smell.

When the water ran clear and he couldn’t smell the blood anymore, he turned off the taps. For a long moment he stood there, hands braced on the sink, staring at his shadowy reflection in the mirror. Finally, he went back into the bedroom and sat on the side of the tumbled bed, staring at nothing.

Again.

It had happened again.

He could still smell the blood, though there was no sign of any on the sheets. There hadn’t been before either. There never was, on anything he touched.

Just his hands.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared at his hands. Strong hands. Clean hands. Now.

No blood. Now.

“What have I done?” he whispered. “Oh, Christ, what have I done?”

Travis Keech yawned widely as he sat up in bed and vigorously rubbed his head with both hands. “Jesus. It’s after eight.”

“It’s dawn,” Alyssa Taylor said sleepily. “And it’s Saturday, so who cares?”

“I care. I have to. I’m supposed to work. The chief said we could come in later if we’ve worked late—which I did last night—but we’re all working overtime.”

“I suppose it’s taking all of you to investigate these murders.”

“You can say that again.”

“And I suppose you’ve got leads to follow.”

Her voice still sounded sleepy, but Travis looked down at her with a tolerant smile. “You know, just because you’re convinced I’m a yokel with straw in my hair doesn’t mean you’re right.”