Authors: Vicki Hinze
“I don’t get it.” Sandy shrugged. “That’s rude, but not odd.”
Caron slumped, dreading Parker’s reaction to this. She deliberately refused to look at him so that she wouldn’t see
it. “The woman hadn’t said a word.”
Understanding dawned in Sandy’s eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Caron rubbed her temple. “She was crack
ing her gum, and I was looking at her lips. They hadn’t
moved.”
“You heard her thoughts,” he said softly, sliding the ci
gar into the ashtray.
Hearing Parker’s sigh, she winced inwardly. “Yes,” she
answered Sandy, knowing they both knew exactly what her
hearing the woman’s thoughts meant. Caron’s time without imaging, her time of freedom and peace, was over.
The “gift” was back.
“What did you do?” His voice had an odd catch in it.
She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Flatly denied that it was happening again. Refused to accept it.” She’d cried
all the way home, too, mourning the loss of her normal life in Midtown, and her students, who deserved a teacher who wasn’t distracted by visions. She didn’t want the gift. She’d
been blessed enough.
Sandy leaned forward. “Could you?”
“What?”
“Refuse to accept the images?” Parker said, interrupt
ing them. Muttering his impatience, he propped his elbows
on his knees.
“I tried.” She had. But by the time she’d stored the
chicken noodle soup on the pantry shelf, she’d known she
had to help. That was when she’d first “seen” the little
girl...and when all hell had broken loose inside her.
Sandy frowned, clearly perplexed. “So you
can
refuse
them, then?”
He was hoping for a way out...for her. But, though she
appreciated his concern, there wasn’t one. Not one she
could live with, anyway. “No, Sandy. I can’t refuse them.”
“That would be too convenient.” Parker’s voice held a condescending smirk she thoroughly resented.
Sandy rubbed his jaw, then his nape, studying her for a long minute. He put down the pen and laced his hands
across his desk. “I’m going to be blunt here, Caron.”
“Okay.” Hadn’t he always been?
“Can you handle this?”
Though it stung, it was a fair question. One she had been asking herself since her first inkling that the images were returning. She’d agonized, rationalized, but no matter what
path her thoughts had taken, all roads led back to one. “I
don’t have any choice.”
“Of course you don’t.” Parker grunted, making it clear that he’d meant the exact opposite of what he’d said.
That was the one. The proverbial back-breaking straw. Who did this guy think he was? She frowned at him and
held it so that he wouldn’t miss it. “I’m sorry you don’t approve, Mr. Simms. But I haven’t asked for your ap
proval, or for your help, so could you can the sarcasm?” She slid her gaze to Sandy. “This is hard enough without a
stranger’s censure.”
Simms lifted his brows, but said nothing.
His hostility had her angry and nervous inside. She
needed a minute to get herself glued back together. She pushed away from the wall and peeked out between the
dusty Venetian blinds. “Can you believe this rain? It should
be snow.”
“You know New Orleans doesn’t get much snow,”
Sandy said, “not even this close to Christmas. And you don’t seem fine. Maybe you ought to give Dr. Z. a call.”
“Later.” Hearing the steady rap of his pen against his
blotter, she turned back toward Sandy. “When there’s time.”
His faded eyes lit with compassion. As if knowing she wouldn’t welcome it, he shifted his gaze. “Look, I know that last case was hard on you,” he said, avoiding speak
ing Sarah’s name. “Finding her like—like that. Well, I know it was rough.”
Caron stiffened and tried hard not to recoil. Parker, too,
had tensed. Just the indirect mention of Sarah had Caron remembering what had happened—and reliving it.
Images flooded Caron’s mind. Images of Sarah’s battered body, unnaturally twisted, lifeless and cold. Images of flames sweeping up the walls, engulfing the building
where Sarah had suffered and died. And images of the empathy pains, so staggeringly severe that she nearly had died
with Sarah.
Her stomach folded over on itself, and Caron shuttered her thoughts. Still, her hands shook, and her knees were
weaker than her aunt Grace’s tea.
Afraid she’d fall if she didn’t sit, Caron plopped down in
an old chair wedged between Sandy’s desk and the wall.
Parker looked at her from around the corner of the file
cabinet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Caron assured him. “I’m fine.”
He lifted a brow and spoke to Sandy. “She looks a little
green around the gills.”
If she’d had the strength, she would’ve slapped him. The
man didn’t have a compassionate bone in his body.
Sandy held his silence and rocked back, rubbing his chin.
The split leather cushion swooshed under his weight and
creaked when he rolled closer to his desk to reach for his
glasses. He draped them over the bridge of his nose and
propped his elbows on his desk pad. “What do we have this
time?”
This time.
Would there be more times? Or was this one a fluke?
Swallowing hard, Caron dropped her shoulder bag onto the floor. Again she wished that Parker Simms were anywhere
in the world
except
Sandy’s office. After this, the man would add “flaky” to his list of her sins.
Resentment churning her stomach, she looked at Sandy
and began disclosing the facts. “A nine-year-old girl. Brown hair. Green eyes. Frail.”
“Caron?” Sandy stiffened, his voice tinged with
reluctance.
He was afraid for her. Afraid she couldn’t handle the
pressure or the empathy pains. So was she. But she
had
to
take whatever came—for the little girl. Caron schooled her
voice, but it still sounded still faint. “Her hands are...bound.”
“Oh, God.”
Caron looked up and met Sandy’s gaze. It was all there for her to see. Fear for her. Raw terror for another vic
tim—a younger Sarah.
“Do you have any proof?” An angry white line circled
Parker’s lips.
“Let her tell the story, Simms.” Sandy’s tone carried a
warning, one Simms would be wise to heed.
The men locked gazes.
Parker didn’t back down.
Sandy blinked rapidly three times, then turned his chair
toward the computer on the stand beside his desk and po
sitioned his fingers on the keys.
She heard him swallow. “Bound with what?”
His tone told her that Sandy, the man, had buried his emotions. Sandy, the cop, had stepped in. Caron took comfort in that. “Rope.” She squeezed her fingers around
the cold metal arms of the chair. “A greasy rope.” Her
wrists twinged. She looked down, half expecting to see black grease marks. But, of course, there were none.
Sandy began to type. “Paint me a picture.”
It was as hard as the telling itself, but Caron forced her
self to look Parker Simms right in the eye. It was obvious that he didn’t believe her. But that was his problem, not
hers. “She’s huddled in the corner of an old wooden shed—
the wood’s slick, weathered. Sunlight’s slanting in, be
tween the slats. Inside it’s maybe eight by ten—no larger.”
“What’s inside?” Sandy’s voice was hoarse.
Caron couldn’t concentrate. Parker’s gaze had gone
black. It was disturbing, seemingly reaching into her soul.
She closed her eyes and blocked him out. The images grew sharp. A spider crawled up the far wall, then onto a shovel caked with dry mud that hung there from a shiny nail. “Lawn tools,” she said. “Rusty cans of paint and in
secticide are on a shelf above the little girl. There’s a big bag
of—” the writing was faded, and Caron strained to make
out the letters “—Blood Meal.” That was it. “It’s on the
floor, propped against the far wall. That’s where she’s
huddling.”
The steady clicking of the keys stopped. Sandy gulped down a swig of coffee. “What’s she wearing?”
From his grimace, the coffee was cold. “Blue jeans,”
Caron said. “The color of Mr. Simms’s. They’re ripped
over her left knee.” She paused and felt her own knee through her white linen slacks. No pain. No burning from
a scrape. The frayed fabric was worn, not ripped. The girl’s
knee was fine. “And a yellow T-shirt.”
“Anything written on the shirt?”
“There’s an emblem, but I can’t see it. Her hands are
curled to her chest.” Cold? No, she wasn’t cold. Caron scanned the
image, then closed her eyes to heighten her
perception. “Black sneakers—muddy. And yellow socks.”
He keyed the last of what Caron told him into the computer. “What about height, weight, distinguishing marks?”
“She’s sitting down and curled, but about four feet, and maybe sixty-five pounds. She’s fragile-looking, small-boned.” Caron pushed herself to sense the girl’s emotions, her physical condition, opening her mind to the images.
Her stomach churned. Pain flooded it. Fevered and
flushed, she felt dizzy. The smell of mud and chemicals grew stronger and stronger, until she couldn’t breathe. She
snapped her eyes open and gasped.
Sandy jumped up and touched her shoulder. “Hey, take
it easy, Caron.”
“I’m okay.” She took in great gulps of cleansing air. The
expression on Sandy’s face warned her that the second she left his office he’d be calling Dr. Z. to express his concern that Caron was still suffering from trauma-induced psychic burnout. “She’s sick, Sandy. Very sick.”
“Was she beaten, bruised—anything else?” Parker asked.
How could Simms sound so calm and unaffected? Again
Caron sensed his disbelief, his hostility toward her. “No.”
Her head was clearing. “Just sick.”
She dabbed sweat from her forehead. “I don’t know about the man.”
“What man? Now there’s a man?” Parker grunted. “What next? Flying saucers?”
“Damn it, Simms, knock it off.” Sandy looked back at Caron and gentled his voice. “Tell me about the man.”
She closed her eyes and again saw his face, his piercing eyes. They were green, and as ice-cold as Parker Simms’s.
She blinked and focused on Sandy. Her voice rattled. “I imaged him on the way over here. He might not even be
connected. I’m not sure yet.”
Then it hit her. The little girl had dimples. So did the
man. “No, they’re connected. He’s her...father.” That
didn’t feel quite right. Not at all sure she was interpreting properly, she hedged. “Maybe. There
is
a connection.”
Sandy moved back and watched the computer screen.
“We’re coming up empty. Ready to look at some pictures?”
Caron nodded and picked up her purse. From under her lashes, she stole a glance at Parker. He’d pulled his chair away from the wall. And, sitting sprawled with his elbow
propped on the armrest and his chin cupped in his hand, he
looked bored and irritated. He hadn’t bought a word she’d
said.
Caron sighed inwardly. She’d met his kind before—one
too many times. “No photos of runaways,” she told Sandy.
“The girl’s not a runaway. She was abducted.” She could
feel herself breaking out in a cold sweat.
Abducted. Just like Sarah James
.
Tapping his pen, Sandy abruptly stopped. “Any idea of where from?”
Caron knew exactly. “A store on the west bank. The corner of Belle Chase Highway and Twenty-first Street. There’s a shopping center there, a reddish brick building. She was behind it on her bicycle. It’s lavender.”
“They’re coming fast, aren’t they?”
She nodded, resigned. The images were coming very fast.
And Simms’s expression had turned to stone.
Sandy added the latest info to the rest in the computer.
“Do you have a name?”
She paused, waited, but nothing came. It hadn’t with
Sarah, either, not until later. “No.”