Sleeping With Fear (8 page)

Rational. Reasonable. Probably right.

Probably.

"Riley?"

Oh, shit. I can't even fake it anymore?

"Hmmm?" she murmured.

"Why are you still awake?" He nuzzled the back of her neck. "I thought you'd go out like a light."

"Just thinking, I guess."

"About what? The murder?"

"Yeah." It wasn't a lie. Exactly. "Occupational hazard."

Without turning her to face him, Ash gathered her into his arms. "Can I talk you into letting it go until tomorrow, or is this something else I should get used to?"

What could she tell him? How much could she tell him?

How far could she trust him?

Riley was conscious of an unfamiliar desperation, and it was a feeling she did not like. Especially when it caused her to blurt, "I'm different. When there's a case."

"So it's not just about using more energy," he said after a moment.

"No. There's that too, but…I pretty much live the job. I get obsessed." She tried to put a shrug into her voice. "My boss says it's part of what makes me a good investigator. Other people have…indicated that I can be distant or difficult to connect with whenever I'm working on a case."

"Forewarned is forearmed?"

"You have a right to know."

His arms tightened around her. "Riley, I understand how our work can drive us. You know how far mine drove me. All the way back to my childhood home, where being the district attorney is barely a full-time job. You can't allow your job to consume you."

She wished she remembered his story, she really did. She had a feeling it was a vitally important piece of this puzzle she was in. But all she could say was, "A man's dead, Ash. Shouldn't I be bothered by that? Shouldn't you?"

"I'm just saying you won't be any good to the investigation
or
yourself if you don't get some rest."

"You're right, of course."

His arms tightened around her again, and there was something inexpressibly soothing in his voice when he murmured, "Tomorrow is soon enough to begin to obsess. Go to sleep, Riley."

He hadn't answered her questions, and that bothered her more than she wanted to admit even to herself. At the same time, her body was relaxing against his, for real this time, and she was growing sleepy once again.

Exhaustion, almost certainly. Catching up with her. But it was more than that, and even as her fragmented thoughts began to settle, a last nagging realization followed her into sleep.

Despite everything, even her own doubts, here in this man's arms she felt…safe.

And for a woman who had learned a long, long time ago that safety was, at best, an illusion, that was terrifying.

In an unusually grim tone, Gordon said, "Yeah, I'd say this was from a Taser. And a juiced-up one, at that."

Riley smoothed her short hair over the burns and turned to face him. "I was pretty sure. Just wanted a second opinion."

"Have you reported this to Bishop?"

"Not yet."

"Jesus Christ on a crutch, Riley."

"I know, I know. But I also know what Bishop will say, and I don't want to be recalled. I can't just cut and run, Gordon. Not yet. Look, if whoever attacked me had wanted to kill me, I'd be dead."

"You don't know that. It's more likely he
left
you for dead and that crazy, messed-up brain of yours kept you alive against the odds."

It was a good point, and more than possible. Like all the psychics on the team, her brain had a higher-than-normal amount of electrical activity going on at any given time, so it very well might not have responded as the attacker had expected to an added jolt.

"Maybe." She hesitated, then confessed, "I had a nightmarish scenario running last night where the guy stunned me and then brought me home and put me to bed thinking I'd wake up and not know anything had happened."

"You mean when you woke up covered with blood you wouldn't think anything had happened?"

"I didn't think about that part until this morning." After about three cups of coffee and a wonderful breakfast courtesy of Ash.

Gordon eyed her consideringly. "You really aren't firing on all cylinders, babe, 'case you didn't know that."

"Why do you men always use car metaphors?" she demanded, even though she'd used the very same one herself in describing her condition to Bishop.

"Don't change the subject."

Riley sighed. "I'll tell Bishop everything when I report in this afternoon. I can't justify keeping any of it to myself, not with a man dead. I'll just have to hope I can convince him to leave me here. But, in the meantime, I'm headed out to the sheriff's department, where I hope there will be statements, photos, and a postmortem report I can take a look at."

"What do you expect to see?"

"I don't know. Probably nothing I couldn't figure out from the crime scene. But maybe I missed something."

Gordon was frowning. "I gather the spooky senses are still AWOL?"

She nodded. "Which makes more sense today than it did yesterday. Now that I at least know what happened to me. Even so, I have a pretty good hunch that Bishop will tell me nobody else on the team has experienced a jolt of electricity straight into the base of the brain. I don't recall reading that in any of the unit's case histories, and I
think
it would have been there. Highlighted. Underlined. With an asterisk."

"Yeah, I get it. Which means-"

"Which means I'm in unexplored territory here and pretty much on my own. God knows what was scrambled or short-circuited inside my head. And what the aftereffects might be."

"Want to tell me again why you aren't going to see a doctor?"

"Because there's nothing a doctor would do except probably run tests. Because I'm functional. I don't even have a headache today, or at least not much of one. Whatever that jolt did to my brain…well, let's just say I doubt they have a magic little pill to fix me."

"It could be permanent? The memory loss
and
the damage to your senses?"

"Could be." Riley drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

"Hell, that may be more likely than not. If an electrical jolt can trigger latent psychic abilities-and we know it can-then it's reasonable to suppose one could just as easily short-circuit or even destroy them."

"How you feel about that?"

"All my life, I've counted on those extra senses to give me an edge when I needed it. When somebody else was bigger or stronger or smarter or faster-or just meaner. Without them, I don't know if I'm good enough to do my job."

I
don't think you have to worry about that," Gordon said. "I've seen you accomplish plenty without the spooky senses."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Wish it helped the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach."

Maybe changing the subject, Gordon asked, "How'd the date go last night?"

She knew he wasn't asking for details, and wouldn't; he just wanted to know if her evening with Ash had changed anything.

It was an answer she didn't have.

"It went…it was fine." Riley hesitated, then said, "Tell me I can trust him, Gordon. Promise me I can trust him."

"Wish I could, babe, but I don't know the man well enough to promise anything. All I know's what I hear, the little bit I've seen for myself, and for what it's worth that's mostly good. I'd want him on my side in a fight. My gut says I could depend on him to watch my back. But we both know that don't mean he couldn't be a bastard to the woman sharing his bed."

"I don't think…That isn't what I'm afraid of."

"What, then? Afraid he carved up a living human being out in the woods?"

"I don't think he could do that. But I don't
know
he didn't. Gordon, I'm used to getting a sense of people. Deeper than reading expressions or voices or watching what they do. I know who I can trust and who I can't, almost always, but it's more than that. It's a sense of who they
are,
deep down inside. With Ash, I have the nagging feeling there was something very important I sensed about him. Something I really need to know now. And whatever it was, I can't feel it, can't
know
it anymore. It's gone."

"Maybe not gone for good. Maybe just beyond reach right now."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe." As well as he knew her, Gordon wasn't psychic, and because he'd never lost a sense he couldn't understand what it really meant to suddenly be without something you had depended on to help you steer your way through an often hostile world.

Riley was only just beginning to realize it herself. The queasy sensation in her stomach intensified.

After a moment, Gordon said, "You got involved with him, and I have a hard time believin' you'd have done that if you'd sensed anything rotten inside him."

"I hope you're right." Riley looked out over the peaceful summertime scenery visible from Gordon's dock and wished fleetingly that she could join the fishing party he was expecting any time now and just sail off for a few mindless hours. That sounded a lot more appealing than looking at autopsy photos.

"Riley?"

She looked at him, then straightened away from the bench she'd been half-leaning against. "I'd better go. Jake expected me at the sheriff's department half an hour ago."

"I got a friend can take this party out."

Grateful for the implicit offer, she nevertheless shook her head. "And we'd tell Jake what? That I felt threatened enough to bring along an army buddy to watch my back in broad daylight? I'm an FBI agent on vacation and he's asked me to advise on an investigation, all nice and casual. So why would I suddenly feel the need for a bodyguard? Nobody else knows about what happened Sunday night, and I want to keep it that way, at least until I figure out a little more of what's going on around here."

"Whoever attacked you knows what happened. And if he left you for dead, he's going to be mighty surprised if he sees you walkin' around like nothin' happened. Mighty surprised-and mighty worried about how much you know."

"I've been thinking about that, and I'm not so sure he'll be worried at all. Far as I can tell, I never even drew my weapon. Can't be sure about that, but I certainly never fired it. And I was attacked from behind, obviously taken by surprise. Not bragging or anything, but it's not all that easy to take me by surprise."

"I would have said."

"Yeah. So, chances are, I never got so much as a glimpse at whoever was holding the Taser. I think if he-or she, I suppose-believed I'd seen or heard anything that might be a danger to him or her, he or she-Oh, hell.
He
would have made damn sure I was dead."

"That's an awfully big assumption to hang your life on, babe."

"Yeah, well." She gestured to the holstered automatic she wore easily on one hip. "From now on, I'm openly armed most of the time and, as far as most people around here are concerned, officially on duty." A decision she had made after Ash left that morning. "I didn't want it to be this way, because it means some people are going to be less likely to talk to me. But, after thinking about it, I decided the risks of appearing unarmed outweighed the benefits."

"Especially with you being a little bitty thing."

"Yes, I know I don't look very threatening. A gun tends to make people think twice. With my other edge gone, that's one I need."

Gordon pursed his lips. "I'll be happy to spread the word you're hell on wheels in a bare-fisted fight. It's not like it'd be a lie."

"Don't go out of your way." Riley shrugged. "But if the subject comes up, why not? Whoever the guy is, I want him to get the idea that taking me by surprise a second time won't be so easy." She held up a hand when he would have spoken to say, "Which also means I won't be going out at night by myself, not again."

"Call me," he said. "It was me got you involved in all this, so you'd damn well
better
call me next time."

With some feeling, she said, "Believe me when I say I do
not
want to go up against the bastard's stun gun a second time. If I need to do any investigating at night, I'll call you."

"Any hour."

"I know. Thanks." Riley took a step toward the walkway that would lead her around to the street side of Gordon's house, then paused and looked at him with a frown. "Gordon? What's happening in Charleston?"

He looked blank for a moment, then said, "Oh, you mean the murders?"

"If that's what's happening. Murders?"

"Yeah. They got a serial killer, apparently. A real mean one, leaving his victims pretty much in pieces. Been at it awhile, I gather, but the cops just put it together about a week ago, at least according to the Charleston papers. Bastard's targeting tourists, men only, and everybody's pretty tore up about it all."

"I guess so." Riley felt suddenly cold in the hot July sunshine.
Can't be. Not the same M.O. And there must be a hundred serials operating right now in this country-

Gordon bent to check a bait bucket, adding, "The papers have been calling 'im The Collector. Seems he's been leavin' a mint-perfect coin on every one of the bodies. Well, not on the bodies. Inside the bodies, after he finishes cutting ' em up. Guess they could just as easily call 'im The Slot Machine Killer, but-Riley? You okay?"

She wondered if the sun had gone behind a cloud, if that's why she felt so cold. Why everything seemed dark all at once and she could barely feel Gordon's big hand on her arm. Except that she knew the sky was cloudless and the sun was hot, that it was a normal summer day.

Normal. That was it, that was the lie.

Because it's not normal. Nothing is normal, not if he's hunting again. A ghost can't hunt, and that's what he's supposed to be. He's dead.

I killed him.

2½ Years Previously

It was an unexpectedly cool night in New Orleans, which suited Riley. She liked heat when she was on the beach or at a pool, but otherwise not so much. Especially at night, and most especially on a night when she might have to move fast.

Being distracted by the sense-assaulting chaos of the French Quarter at night was bad enough without also coping with sticky clothing. What little she was wearing, anyway.

"Hey, honey-how 'bout a date?"

"I'm off duty," she said.

He blinked in surprise and nervously fingered a strand of alien-head Mardi Gras beads that were adding a nicely tacky flourish to his colorful shorts and floral shirt. "Aw, now, don't be like that, honey. I can pay for a room."

"I'm sure you can, champ, but I'm just not interested." She kept her tone bored and her gaze moving; the last thing she needed tonight was to get picked up for solicitation, and she'd been on the watch all evening for cops patrolling the street on foot.

It made the job she was here to do even more difficult, and for at least the tenth time she regretted the skimpy clothing that made her blend right into the festive crowd but also made her a target of unwanted attention.

He'll never notice me, but, dammit, every straight guy between fifteen and sixty-five
has.
I could make a bloody fortune. Probably should have picked an outfit closer to tourist and further away from hooker.

Not that there was much distance between those two seeming opposites, not with today's skimpy summer fashions. Besides which, she wanted to look more like a native than a tourist and, clearly, had achieved that goal.

Realizing that the hopeful would-be john was still standing there, Riley allowed an edge to creep into her voice. "Look, it's my night off, okay? Find another playmate."

He hesitated, scanning her up and down with clear disappointment, then sighed and moved on.

Riley decided that she obviously looked too available just hovering, so she began to stroll slowly along the sidewalk, allowing the moving crowd to carry her.

It had to be New Orleans. She was certain of it. She had followed the killer from Memphis to Little Rock, a step behind him as she'd been for months, studying the butchered bodies he left for the police to find, trying to climb inside his mind far enough to do more than guess where he'd strike next.

Then, in Little Rock, looking at the bloody scene of his latest murder, something inside her had whispered
Birmingham
. She had hesitated, questioning her instincts, her clairvoyance, whatever it was trying to guide her.

But she had been right; his next victim died in Birmingham. And Riley had arrived just in time to view yet another scene of butchery.

By then her own anger at being once again too late to help the victim had nearly blocked her, but even through that fury she had heard the whisper.
New Orleans
.

I'll be in New Orleans, little girl. Meet you there.

She hadn't told Bishop that part when she reported it. It had probably been her imagination anyway, that's what she convinced herself. Because she wasn't a telepath and couldn't possibly have heard the killer's voice in her mind. So all she told her boss was that she felt sure New Orleans would be the next stalking ground.

So here she was. A month later.

And so far, nothing.

It was almost impossible to be bored in New Orleans, but Riley knew her patience was wearing thin. This killer had struck at least nine times-Bishop felt there were probably earlier victims not found or not connected, and Bishop was usually right about stuff like that-and all she was sure of after months of exhaustive effort was that her target was a salesman or traveling rep of some kind.

"It makes sense," Bishop agreed. "He knows the cities and towns he visits. So he'd know where to hunt. All the local hangouts. It wouldn't take him more than a few nights to be able to recognize the regulars."

"And pick his target, yeah. But why family men, guys stopping for a beer or two on the way home from work? Jealousy? Because they have what he doesn't?"

"Maybe. Jealousy. Resentment. Envy. Or just rage. Because it's all so unfair. Because they're normal and he's not."

"You think he knows that? Knows he isn't normal?"

"Some part of him knows." Bishop hesitated, then added soberly, "I hope that's the part you're tapping into, Riley. Because the other part of him is black as the inside of hell, pure evil, and that's not a place you ever want to get caught up in."

"I'm not a telepath."

"No, you're an ultrasensitive clairvoyant and you've gotten obsessed with this guy. Which means you're letting his work seep into your mind, your emotions, into your very pores. It's dangerous. I warned you-don't get too close."

"You knew I would," she said, and it wasn't quite an accusation. "When this started. When you recruited me."

"Yeah. I knew."

Hearing or sensing what might have been a touch of regret in him, she said, "It's okay. I knew it too."

"I wish that helped," Bishop said. "Be careful, Riley. Be very, very careful."

Three weeks after that phone conversation, Riley was tense, edgy, and getting a little too familiar with her surroundings. At night on Bourbon Street, it was noisy and colorful and held a particular flavor no other city on earth could match.

People filled the street, some of them lurching or staggering, their eighty-proof laughter scraping along her nerves. The spicy aromas of Cajun cooking mixed uneasily with that of the musty old buildings and cigarette smoke and people. Occasionally the breeze changed, and the muddy smell of the river was added to the rest.

A space had been cleared about halfway down for a juggler to entertain the crowd, his practiced patter loud and cheerful. The music booming from the clubs and strip bars lining the street clashed with the mournful wail of a folk singer, his guitar case open for contributions on the sidewalk before him.

And under the bright lights of the street, the appearance of the crowd ran the gamut from a few garish costumes apparently left over from Mardi Gras to men and women in business suits. In between lay everything from jeans and T-shirts to the brief skirts or shorts and halter tops of the teenagers-and hookers.

Riley was trying to close out all that, trying to focus her mind only on her prey.

You're here, you bastard. The cops don't know it yet, don't know there's a hunter prowling their streets. These people don't know. But I know. I can feel you, like an itch on the back of my neck. Smell you, like the sour stench of cheap cologne and old sweat.

And need. You smell like need. You need to kill tonight, don't you? It's been too long since the last one. Why have you waited so long? You never did before. Three weeks, max, never a whole month. Why wait a month this time?

Is it me? Do you know about me?