Storm of Visions (33 page)

“I can’t imagine.”

“All the women I want. All the power I want. All the glory I want.” He gloated. “My own television show. I’ll be bigger than Robertson. Hell, I’ll be bigger than Oprah!”

“Wow.”

He was so involved in his magnificent vision of the future, he didn’t hear the sarcasm.

She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to attack. “I don’t know about the power and the glory, but I’m not available. I’m sort of busy with Caleb.”

“Honey, he’s not here, and he’s not coming home.” Tyler sounded way too certain.

Jacqueline wavered, eased back to stand solidly on the floor. “Why not?”

“He checked in with his mama before he left—such a good boy—and told her he was going back to Irving’s.” Tyler smiled.

He was so good-looking, so strikingly gorgeous, yet in that instant, Jacqueline saw the corruption that ate away at him, turning his mind into a cancerous mass, his flesh into a wasting disease.

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“What I’m good at.”

“I don’t think I really know what that is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not being a psychic.” She took a breath. “You’re a mind speaker.”

“Very good.” The words were approving. His tone was not. He didn’t like being caught at his games. “I’m a mind controller, too, and it turns out that Irving is an easy target.”

If that was true, it was very bad news. “I would have never suspected that.”

“In my business—”

“A faith healer, right?”

“That’s right. In my business, you learn that the time to take control of a mind is when that person is distraught by a tragedy, or in anguish or in pain. The person has no guards then. They’re not paying attention, their shields are down, and I can move right in.”

“Yes. I can see how that would work.” She thought it through, and said, “I imagine you convinced a lot of people to give you access to their bank accounts.”

“You are such a smart girl.”

“Yes. I am. But you didn’t take control of my mind.” She knew that because once she had the information she wanted, she still intended to beat the hell out of him.

“No.” He turned sullen. “Some of the Chosen Ones have a protection I hadn’t encountered before. You especially. You’ve got a Teflon mind. I couldn’t get anywhere with you. At least, not until after that vision of yours. Then you were hurt and confused, and you sure heard me when I talked!” Now he smirked in a way that made her want to slap him.

But she kept her voice cool and distant. “I did. You told me,
If he looks into it, he will die.”

“See? It was nice of me to warn you. It’s too bad you didn’t pass it on.”

“I did pass it on. Caleb didn’t care.” The memory of that moment, when she and Caleb ripped each other to shreds with their words, made her want to give in to easy tears. But she couldn’t; that
would
give Tyler a hold on her mind. “He wanted to find the man who tried to kill me.”

“If he had realized I was coming here, he could have saved himself cab fare.” Tyler laughed, long and low. “Not to mention a messy, inescapable death.”

That laughter, that unmistakable air of triumph, chilled her to the bone. “Tyler, what have you done?” she asked.

“The same thing I did at the Gypsy Travel Agency. I rigged my room and my things.”

“Rigged. Like with a bomb?”

“A
bomb
.” He was scornful. “A
bomb
isn’t necessary when the Others are willing to show me tricks with the supernatural. Your boyfriend has got such a dislike for cell phones, and I kept my spare, so that’s what I used as a fuse.”

“So it is a bomb.”

“It’s not!” he said sharply. “Nothing as crude as that. It’s an enchantment. Sooner or later, your boyfriend or one of your friends will search my room. He’ll turn on my cell phone to see who I’ve called and who’s called me, and”—Tyler flipped his fingers—“Irving’s home and everyone within the range of his containment spell will vaporize . . . including your boyfriend.”

In a whirlwind of fury that startled Jacqueline and took Tyler by surprise, diminutive Mrs. D’Angelo came up out of her chair and rammed her head toward his chest.

Perhaps if she had hit him squarely in the breastbone, she would have done some damage. Instead she thumped his left ribs, and she didn’t have strength behind her.

Grabbing her arm, he tossed her aside, knocking her head into the cabinets.

She crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

“You . . .
mother
!” He made it sound like the worst insult he knew. He lifted his gun. He aimed at Mrs. D’Angelo.

Jacqueline cried out, “No!” and started toward him.

Ritter, gentle Ritter, sank his teeth into Tyler’s thigh.

“God damn it!” With his other leg, Tyler kicked the dog in the ribs.

Ritter yelped and let go. On his belly, he crawled toward Mrs. D’Angelo.

Tyler pointed the cold, black eye of the pistol at the dog. Then at Jacqueline. Then at the dog again.

Lifting the snow globe over her head, Jacqueline threw it with all the considerable power of her well-toned arm. The cheap souvenir ripped through the air.

The bracelet Charisma had given her flew off.

Tyler flung up his hand to fend off the snow globe. He deflected it, but not enough. With the weight of the water behind it, the snow globe smashed into the side of his face. The plastic shattered. The globe exploded in a splash of water and a slash of blood.

He yelled in pain and rage.

Jacqueline ran toward him.

Recovering, he steadied his gun on her.

She skidded to a halt.

He lifted his hand to his face. The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building,
something
had ripped into his cheek, leaving a jagged cut that extended from under his eye to the edge of his mouth. “You marked me!” Incredulous, he stared at the blood on his fingers.

That was as good an opportunity as she could expect. Jacqueline leaped toward him, her hips swiveling as she swung her foot around and up toward his groin.

He leaped up and back.

The kick landed squarely on his thigh, making him grunt with pain. He responded with a punch toward her throat.

She spun away, but now she knew—he had a long reach, he was trained, and he was good. Very good.

As he punched again, she kicked and caught his forearm hard. Followed up with a solid hit to the face that made blood spurt from his lip.

He roared with rage, and came at Jacqueline with a lightning-fast barrage of blows that had her retreating across the kitchen.

Somewhere, Lizzie barked sharply and in agony.

As if that was just the sound he needed to hear, he stopped and laughed.

An opening.

She aimed a punch at his throat.

He caught her fist in his hand, swung her and flung her toward the door. “I’m going to kill you. Slowly. The way I did that dog-bitch, and the way I’m going to kill that mother-bitch.”

Caleb had taught Jacqueline to save her breath, and she did now, fighting hard, making him shut up and back away.

He was panting, bleeding, hurt.

She watched for an opening. It came when he swung wide.

She kicked again, aiming for his soft belly.

With lightning-fast reflexes, he caught her ankle and flipped her around.

He wasn’t as hurt as she’d thought.

She’d been suckered.

She hit the floor hard, on her chest. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.

He landed on her with all his weight.

Her ribs cracked; she gasped in agony, saw red stars explode behind her eyes, lost consciousness for a vital minute.

She came to on her back.

His pistol was gone. He sat on her chest, his blue eyes mad with fury. His hands pressed against her throat, cutting off her breath. “The devil picked this way for you to die. So die. Die.”

She struggled desperately, clawing at his wrists.

His fingers tightened, crushing her windpipe. “You were almost finished yesterday because you couldn’t breathe, but Isabelle had to show off. She had to save you. Let’s kill you today.”

Blood dribbled from his face onto hers. She had no air, and loudly, inside her head, she could hear the sound of dripping. If she didn’t do something, the noise would never stop. She’d be trapped forever in that cemetery, alone, friendless. . . .

Instinctively, she brought her injured palm around and pressed it against his forehead.

A shock ran down her arm, through her hand, and burst like fireworks against his forehead.

He staggered back, holding his eyes and shrieking in pain.

Hand outstretched, she sucked in a long breath and went at him again.

Leaning down like a bull prepared to charge, he brought his shoulder forward. He fixed his crazed eyes on hers.

Still gasping, she tried to scramble backward. She couldn’t recover this time. When he hit her, she would never get up again.

He started toward her with the speed of a linebacker—and from the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

Caleb. It was Caleb. He was here. He was alive.

She crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

C
aleb slammed into Tyler from the side and smacked him sideways across the kitchen.

Holding her throat, Jacqueline dragged in one breath after another. The coolness of the tile seeped into her heated skin and slowly brought her back to consciousness, and relief, and gratitude.

Caleb was here. Oh, God, her lover was alive.

He was alive, Tyler’s plan had failed, and Caleb had arrived in time to save Jacqueline and his mother.

Tyler hit the stainless steel refrigerator hard enough to put a dent in the door and make the metal ring. He fumbled in his jacket, rolled around, and faced them, pistol in his hand and aimed at Caleb’s chest.

In a motion so swift Jacqueline almost couldn’t see it, Caleb pulled a knife from his sleeve and, with deadly accuracy, threw it into Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler screamed and dropped the pistol.

Caleb rushed him, smashing his body against the refrigerator again.

Grabbing him with one hand at his throat, another on his forehead, he slammed Tyler’s skull into the metal once, twice.

Jacqueline didn’t care. Tyler had killed Lizzie. Hurt, maybe killed, Mrs. D’Angelo. Hurt Ritter. Hurt her.

She hoped Caleb killed him.

Crawling to Mrs. D’Angelo’s side, she checked her pulse. Caleb’s mother was unconscious, bleeding from a cut on her forehead—but alive. Ritter lay close against her, and he licked Jacqueline’s hand as she dragged the phone off the counter and called nine-one-one. “Home intruder,” she croaked, and folded a kitchen towel to press onto Mrs. D’Angelo’s wound. “Need an ambulance.”

“Address?” the emergency operator inquired.

“Don’t know.” The battering at the refrigerator went on.

“Please stay on the line,” the operator said.

“Can’t.” Jacqueline hung up the phone, realized she didn’t know Irving’s number, and tried to shout at Caleb. It was justice of a kind that her voice was gone and she couldn’t stop Caleb from beating Tyler. But she had to; this was more important than Tyler’s punishment. She tried to stand and went down on one knee. Tried again and lurched to a chair. Grabbed the back and shoved it across the tile floor toward Caleb. It hit him in the backs of the legs.

His hands still wrapped around the whimpering Tyler, he looked at her, murder in his eyes. “My mother?” he asked.

“She’s alive,” Jacqueline rasped. “I’ve called nine-one-one, asked for medical assistance, but I didn’t know the address.”

“They’ll trace the call.”

Tyler clawed at Caleb’s face.

Caleb slapped him in openhanded contempt.

“Caleb!” She was louder this time. “Irving’s phone number. We’ve got to warn them. . . .”

Caleb saw her desperation, and discarded Tyler like a piece of trash. “Warn them about what?”

Tyler tumbled to the floor.

“He set a trap.” She gestured at the moaning mind speaker.

“What trap?” Caleb grabbed the phone and dialed.

“Cell phone set to blow up the house.”

Jacqueline had never heard Caleb swear in Italian, but he did it now. He was pale as he spoke urgently into the receiver. “Come on. Come on!” His gaze flicked over Jacqueline as he listened to the ringing. It lingered on the bruises on her neck, then snapped back to Tyler. “I
am
going to kill him.”

“Okay.” She sagged into a kitchen chair. “But first,
they’ve
got to answer the phone.”

He punched a button, and suddenly, she could hear the ringing.

“Speakerphone,” he said.

Someone picked up. “Hello.” It was McKenna, and he sounded annoyed.

Caleb straightened. “McKenna. Listen to me. Don’t go in Tyler’s room. Don’t touch anything. Especially don’t touch the cell phone.”