Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
“True.”
“The big question here is what made him focus on you? As far as everyone back in Shelbyville is concerned, you and that real estate agent stumbled onto the victim by accident.”
She pulled back a little and looked at him with a shadowed expression.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but in my experience, the real freaks don’t make allowances for coincidence. Everything is a sign to them.”
He exhaled slowly. “You’re right.”
“The girl was found in my house, a
witch’s
house. He knows that I’m the witch’s niece. That makes me a witch, as well. Last but not least, he knows that I was there when his victim was discovered. The upshot is that he holds me personally responsible for ruining his latest witch hunt.”
“Any other traces here in your condo?”
“No. I did a quick tour while I was waiting for you.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a good look around.”
“I doubt if he stayed for more than a few minutes. Too risky.” He took out his phone.
“Who are you going to call?” she asked.
“First guy on my list is Chief Langdon in Shelbyville. Got a number for him?”
“Yes, but why bother?” She swept out an arm. “We haven’t got a scrap of proof. Langdon made it very clear that he doesn’t believe in psychics. What’s more, I got the distinct impression that he thinks I’m a leather-and-whip-style bitch. I don’t think he cares for that type.”
“Obviously a man of limited imagination. Get me the number.”
She rewarded that with the severe glare he no doubt deserved but she obediently reached into the closet and took out her purse. He watched her dig out a card.
“Personal issues aside,” she said, handing him the card, “all we’ve got in the way of hard evidence is that fragment of a teacup, which proves nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Langdon concludes that I broke the stupid cup and brought the pieces back with me so I could stage an attention-getting scene for the media. I could tell when I talked to him that he was just waiting for me to claim to be psychic.”
“But you didn’t give him the satisfaction?”
“Are you kidding? If I pushed that angle, he wouldn’t have listened to anything at all that I had to say about the killer. As it was, I’m pretty sure he thought I invented everything I did tell him.”
“I’ll call him, anyway. He may not pay attention but he can’t say that he wasn’t kept informed.” He punched in the number on the card.
A gruff, sleep-heavy voice answered on the fourth ring.
“Langdon here.”
“Wake up, Chief. Looks like your killer was in Oriana tonight.”
“Who the hell are you?” Langdon was fully awake now.
“Zack Jones. I’m a private investigator.” It was his standard ID when he was on a case and it was true. He had the license to prove it. All J&J agents did. The agency was a legitimate firm, duly registered as such in every state in which it maintained an office.
He gave Langdon a terse version of events.
Langdon was not impressed.
“You’re telling me that Miss Tallentyre believes the killer followed her back to Oriana just because she found part of a broken cup in her coat pocket?” he asked.
“She didn’t break it herself,” Zack said patiently.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m very sure of it.”
“Is she your client?” Langdon asked, suspicious.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve got a reason to believe her. I don’t. I’ve got a lot of solid leads to follow up. I can’t waste time.”
“The freak was in her condo tonight.”
“Why would he focus on her?” Langdon demanded.
“Excellent question.”
“Look, as far as the media is concerned, Doug Spicer, the real estate agent, was the one who was responsible for finding the girl. I didn’t give Miss Tallentyre’s name to the press.”
“Shelbyville is a very small town, Chief. Everyone there knows that she was with Spicer when the girl was found. More to the point, the girl was found in her aunt’s house. It makes sense that the killer would aim his rage at her. Although, come to think of it, you might want to check on Spicer and make sure he’s okay. It’s possible he’s in danger, too.”
“I’m not buying any of this,” Langdon said wearily, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call that detective with the Oriana PD and ask him to stop by Miss Tallentyre’s place tomorrow and check out the broken cup.”
That was as good as it was going to get. At least Bradley Mitchell would be predisposed to believe Raine.
“Thanks,” he made himself say, employing an unbelievable amount of willpower to remain civil.
“No offense, Jones, but your client is a strange woman. Got a feeling the polite term is
unbalanced
.”
“Good night, Chief.”
He ended the call without waiting for a response and looked at Raine. “He’s going to have Mitchell come by and take a look at your cup.”
“Well, at least Bradley will probably believe me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking, too.” He punched in another number.
“Who are you calling now?” she asked.
“Fallon Jones.”
“Why?”
“Because about twenty minutes ago some SOB of a para-hunter tried to gut me like a fish with a really big knife. Never did like knives.”
She stared at him, horrified. “The man who attacked you was one of those hunters you told me about? The kind that can see in the dark?”
“Yeah. Looks like Fallon got it right.”
She went from appalled to incensed in about half a second.
“How does any of this make Fallon Jones right?” she demanded.
He looked at her while he waited for Fallon to pick up. “He hoped that sending me here would draw some of the bottom feeders to the surface. Looks like his plan may be working.”
Fallon answered the phone on the first ring, sounding gruff and ill-tempered as usual.
“Give me some good news, Zack.”
“This will put the cherry on your ice cream sundae. A hunter with a twist tried to take me out tonight in a motel parking lot.”
There was a short silence on the other end.
“You’re all right, I assume, or you wouldn’t be making this call,” Fallon said eventually.
“You’re a real people person, Fallon. Yeah, I’m okay.”
“What about the other guy?”
“He got away.”
“Damn.”
“I agree. But I did learn a few things that you’ll want to factor into that computer you like to call a brain.”
“Such as?”
He knew he had Fallon’s full attention.
“The guy was a hunter, but he has this really cool trick where he morphs into a sweet little old lady right before your very eyes while he’s coming at you with a knife. Ever try to beat up on someone who looks like your great-grandmother?”
“Describe
morph
,” Fallon ordered in a voice that was as sharp as the knife in the attacker’s fist.
“The guy started out as a homeless man sleeping in a breezeway. I think that was just a standard-issue disguise. The tip-off was his fancy running shoes. The next thing I know there’s this little old lady coming at me with an umbrella, a really fast old lady. But it was hard to focus on her. Then, in mid-stride, the old lady transforms herself into a guy in black tights and a ski mask. Ever hear of a para-talent who could pull off that kind of illusion?”
Fallon was silent for a time. You could almost hear the synapses firing.
“Maybe,” Fallon said eventually. “I think there are a few old legends in the historical records. I’ll have to do some research and get back to you. Anything else?”
“Hell, no. Haven’t even gotten to the exciting part yet. Been a busy evening here in Oriana. Looks like the Bonfire Killer followed Raine back here from Shelbyville.”
“Listen up, Zack, I don’t want you getting distracted by a secondary investigation. Is that understood?”
“Sorry about that, but finding out that Raine is now the focus of a sadistic killer is going to be a little hard to ignore. We don’t all have your ability to compartmentalize, Fallon.”
“So? You stick close to her. That’s what you’re being paid to do, anyway. Given your talents, she’s safer with you than she would be with an armed cop standing at her side. You can guard her while the two of you concentrate on finding out what happened to Lawrence Quinn.”
“You’re a very focused man, Fallon.”
Fallon pretended he hadn’t heard that. “If you’re finished, I have something for you. It’s not much but I’ve got a feeling about it.”
“I’m listening,” Zack said. Actually, he was listening very carefully. Whenever Fallon said he had a feeling, his agents took notice.
“My analyst just came up with one small but interesting insight into Lawrence Quinn. Turns out he’s a serious fan of the blues. I did some checking. There’s a nightclub there in Oriana that features a lot of jazz and blues. Place called the Alley Door.”
Twenty-five
H
oudini. He hated the code name they’d given him. His name was Sean Tanner and not so long ago that name had been in lights. It was true that when the Nightshade operative had approached him he was a small-time Vegas magician, but he was moving up fast. He was destined to become a headliner at a major casino on the Strip. No one else could do what he did. His magic was the real deal.
Nightshade, however, had promised him more, a lot more. And they’d delivered.
He was way beyond being a low-rent stage act now. The drug had not only given him the additional talents of a para-hunter, it had enhanced his already existing powers of illusion. They told him that he was something new and different in the world of paranormal talents: a level-ten hunter-illusionist. He deserved some respect but he wasn’t getting it from January.
“Failure is not tolerated within Nightshade,” January said.
Rage, infused with the frustration that resulted from the missed kill, twisted through him. It was all he could do not to break January’s neck. It would be so easy.
Unfortunately, January was the source of the drug. Until he figured out how to obtain the formula from someone else within Nightshade—the mysterious person January reported to, for example—he was stuck having to take orders.
“I didn’t fail,” he said. He stared hard through the SUV’s windshield at the night-darkened street. “You saw what happened. A car pulled into the lot. I was caught square in the headlights. I had no choice but to leave the scene. You said yourself we can’t afford to attract the attention of the cops.”
“I was watching you. Jones had you on the defensive. Obviously the old-woman illusion wasn’t working.”
“It worked.”
It had slowed him down, though, and it had been out of control. That really worried him. He was afraid to tell January that, in the heat of hand-to-hand combat, he had been unable to hold the illusion. It had winked on and off erratically like a broken flashlight.
“You tripped and fell,” January said.
There was a reason January had been given that particular code name, he thought. Cold as a glacier.
“Things like that happen in a fight,” he said. “It wouldn’t have changed the outcome. Jones isn’t anywhere near as fast as me.”
“He’s a mirror talent. He was anticipating your every move.”
“That’s not true. I was closing in. The problem was that damned car.”
“I hope you understand that your failure to perform to expectations reflects poorly on me. Jones survived tonight. That means I will have to have an unpleasant conversation with a certain individual. Need I remind you that both of us are dependent on that individual for our supply of the drug?”
He forced himself to remain silent. He had one critical advantage. January could be replaced but that was not the case with him. He was a one-of-a-kind lab experiment. They had explained to him that illusion talents of any level were extremely rare. An illusion talent who possessed a psychic profile that could, with the right chemical stimulation, be expanded to include a high-level hunter talent, was the stuff of myth and legend.
He was on the way to becoming a walking legend within the organization. Nightshade needed him.
“I’ll take care of Jones next time,” he said.
“I’ll decide whether or not you get a second shot at Jones.”
He did not argue. Instead, he started to make his own plans.
Twenty-six
B
y the time Zack ended the call she was simmering.
“Mr. Jones, I take it, is not a sympathetic employer,” she said. It had been all she could do not to yank the phone out of his hand and give Fallon Jones the benefit of her opinion.
Zack shrugged. “I think of him as a client, not an employer. I work for him on a contract basis. As far as I know, all of his agents and analysts handle it that way. He doesn’t have a regular staff. Doubt if he could get anyone to work for him full-time. He calls in whatever talent he thinks he needs.”
“That’s not the point.” She spread her arms wide, exasperated. “You almost got killed tonight. Judging by your end of the conversation, it didn’t sound as if Fallon Jones cared a jot about your welfare.”
“Fallon is all about the bottom line. As long as I’m alive and kicking, he’s only interested in the next move.”
“He doesn’t sound like a very nice person at all.”
“Fallon is…Fallon. To know him is to appreciate him.”
“Bet he doesn’t have a lot of friends,” she muttered.
“Well, no, but that doesn’t seem to bother him much.”
She sighed. “What happens next?”
He looked down at his duffel bag and then raised his eyes to meet hers. “Given recent events, it looks like I’ll be staying with you for a while. Where do you want me to put my stuff?”
She had known this was coming, she reminded herself. And he was only here because of the danger. This was business, nothing more. Nevertheless, the reality of having him here, under her roof, sent little shivers of anticipation through her.
“Okay,” she said, opting for cool and composed.
“Not going to argue, huh?”
She raised her brows. “A serial killer invaded my home tonight and more or less announced that he is targeting me. I am not an idiot. I am delighted to have a houseguest who knows how to cope with people who attack other people with knives.”