"Yeah. It was a rental, but nobody's been interested in living there since he was killed." Max followed her to the horses. "The owners packed up his personal stuff and put it into storage, since no relative had shown up to claim anything. You think you might be able to pick up something there?"
"Won't know until I try." Nell mounted the pinto.
Max followed suit, swinging aboard the bay and gathering the reins. "His place was a couple miles from here as the crow flies. We'll attract less attention if we ride."
"Lead on."
He did, and for ten minutes or so they rode in silence. Fairly tense silence, really; Nell could feel it in herself and see it in the set of Max's shoulders. Then he chose to direct them along the edge of a plowed field where they could ride abreast, and as soon as she came up beside him he said abruptly, "Didn't you tell me once that you'd been psychic since you were very young?"
"I may have. The first vision I can clearly remember happened when I was about eight. Why?"
"Something you were born with? Or something that was triggered?"
Nell sent him a quick glance. "Born with. It runs in my family, remember? I probably had visions when I was younger but didn't understand what was happening and can't now remember them. That's fairly typical of most born psychics."
"What about the blackouts?"
"What about them?"
Unusually patient even if his voice still sounded a bit edgy, Max said, "How old were you the first time you had a blackout?"
"As far as I remember, about the same age, I suppose. Nobody ever told me I had them when I was younger, but I may have."
"So they're connected. The blackouts and your visions."
"Maybe. One theory is that certain kinds of psychic experiences are triggered or intensified by excess electrical energy in the brain. It's at least theoretically pos-sible that a buildup of that sort of energy might… overload the brain and cause periodic blackouts as a side effect. Other types of physical side effects have been reported."
Max turned his head to look at her steadily. "So it isn't stress at all."
She managed a smile. "Let's call it stress of a certain kind. Not emotional, just… brain chemistry."
"And if that happens too long or too often? Won't it damage the brain?"
"It hasn't so far."
Max swore under his breath. "But it might?"
Nell reined her horse to a stop when he did. "I don't know. Nobody knows. Maybe." She was feeling more raw by the moment, and angry at him for pushing.
He looked more than a little angry himself. "Then how in hell can you justify deliberately putting yourself into situations where your abilities are likely to be triggered? Jesus Christ, Nell, it's playing Russian roulette with your life."
"It's my life," she reminded him tightly. "Besides, it's all theoretical. We don't know what's going on in my brain, Max, not for sure. Nobody knows. Medically, a CAT scan and other tests show increased electrical activity even in parts of the brain normally considered inactive, which seems to be true for every psychic we've tested so far. But whatever is going on doesn't seem to be harming any of us; having periodic medical tests to determine that is one of the requirements for the psychic members of our unit. Maybe our brains adapt to the excess energy, I don't know. All I do know is that there's no sign of any organic damage."
"Yet."
She drew a breath. "All right—there's no damage yet. Maybe there never will be. Or maybe I'll wake up one day with my brain fried. Is that what you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me why you're going out of your way to trigger experiences that may kill you, Nell."
She said steadily, "I can do my best to use my abilities in the most positive way I can think of, or I can hide from them—and from the world. Is that what you'd prefer, Max, that I end up like my grandmother? That I hide myself away in a little house back in the woods, keeping everyone at a distance while I live in terror of experiences I have absolutely no control over?"
"No, of course not. But there must be a middle ground."
"This is my middle ground. I work with people who are doing their best to understand and master psychic abilities, people who take care of and watch out for each other. And I use my abilities deliberately, trying to have more control so I'm not blindsided every goddamned time it happens to me. Can you understand that?"
After a long moment, Max nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I can understand that." He lifted his reins, and the horses moved forward again. "But it's a dangerous choice, Nell."
He had no idea just how dangerous, she thought as she followed him. No idea at all.
CHAPTER NINE
It was easy to see why the house hadn't roused any interest in would-be renters in the months since Ferrier's death. No doubt originally constructed to house a tenant farmer or migrant workers who would toil in the nearby fields, it was a small place at the end of a long dirt road that would be unbearably dusty in summer, and though it looked in decent repair there was nothing in the least inviting in its drab appearance.
They tied their horses at the edge of the woods out of sight of the road and walked across the weed-infested backyard.
"I doubt anyone would see us if we went to the front," Max said, "but there are a couple of neighbors down the road who might notice if we make ourselves too obvious."
"Were the neighbors questioned?" Nell asked as they stepped up onto the rear porch. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and produced a small, zip-pered leather case.
"I think Ethan sent a couple of his people out here—belatedly. Far as I know, nobody reported seeing or hearing anything suspicious, though you'd know more about the police report than I would." He eyed the small case she was opening, and added, "Is that what I think it is?"
"Probably." She selected one of the small tools and bent to begin working on the door lock.
"Burglar's tools?"
"Let's call them tools to unlock doors and leave it at that, shall we?"
"Did my tax dollars pay for those?" he wondered dryly.
"No. Do you happen to know how long it's been since anybody was in this house?"
"Not offhand, no. Did the Bureau send you to burglar's school?"
"Bishop taught us. He thought the skill might come in handy. He was right."
"He was a burglar before he joined the FBI?"
"Actually, I think he was studying criminal psychology and law when the FBI came calling. I have no idea where he picked up his more… esoteric skills."
"He has a lot of those?"
"A few."
Max frowned down at her as a soft click announced her success with the lock. "This is breaking and entering, isn't it?"
"Do you care?" Nell retorted, straightening and pushing open the door.
"Not really." Max followed her inside the house. "But if Ethan or any of his people catch us out here, my ass is in serious trouble."
"Umm. He's convinced you killed Ferrier, isn't he?"
"Wants to be convinced. There's a difference."
"So you two are still at odds?"
With mock surprise, Max said, "Didn't Wade Keever fill you in on that?"
She smiled slightly. "As a matter of fact, he did."
"Yeah, I thought so. Telephone, telegraph, tell Wade. Fastest way short of a billboard to make anything public." Max shrugged. "Ethan and I haven't been close for a long time, you know that. And you know why."
Nell sent him a look, then turned her gaze to their rather musty surroundings. The small house was furnished, though there was certainly nothing to shout about in its worn and threadbare offerings. The tiny kitchen held the bare essentials in the way of appliances, the small living room boasted only a sagging couch and one faded chair, and through the doorway to the bedroom she could see an ancient brass bed.
"Ferrier certainly didn't live beyond his means, did he?" she said.
"Apparently he was stashing all his ill-gotten gains away to finance his planned move to the south of France. At least, so I heard."
Nell frowned slightly and went toward the bedroom, choosing that room automatically because it tended to be the most personal in a house.
The instant she crossed the threshold, she got a flash of something—movement, color, the faint echo of a breathless laugh, the scent of perfume—and she stopped just two paces inside the room, closing her eyes and concentrating. Behind her, Max stood in the doorway and watched her, silent.
The jumble of impressions was all noise and colors in her mind for a moment or two, and then the energy of the most intense activity this room had contained surged to the surface of her awareness, and Nell opened her eyes with a start to find the bare little space drastically changed.
Instead of stark sunlight streaming through the uncurtained windows, it was nighttime, and candles burned all around the room, casting a golden glow over the tumbled covers of the old brass bed.
And the two people in it.
Nell recognized the man from the photos she had seen, a dark, heavy-shouldered man with a handsome, cruel face. He lay on his back on the bed, grinning up at the naked woman crouched astride his naked body.
The woman, dark hair streaming down her back, rode him with a fierce, greedy insistence, her throaty moans and cries erupting at last into a wild sound of release that was a laugh of pure triumph. Her head turned, bright, mocking eyes seeming to fix on Nell as she laughed again.
Victory. Conquest.
I win. I win again.
"Jesus." Her own voice brought Nell out of it, and she stared, shaken, at the bare, stained mattress on the ancient bed. There was no one there. No tumbled covers. No candles scattered around the room providing an intimate glow. No mocking laughter. "Jesus," she repeated softly.
"Nell?"
She turned slowly to face Max.
"What did you see?"
"Hailey. I saw Hailey."
Shelby paused before leaving her house to take one more look at her copy of the photograph of Nell leav-ing the courthouse, and frowned as she considered it. Nothing new occurred to her, except that she was probably going to regret what she was about to do. Probably.
She gathered up her cameras and headed toward town. This had to look casual, and as Shelby well knew, there was a trick to looking casual when you were anything but.
The first step was for her to wander around with her cameras taking pictures of whatever caught her fancy. She did that most days anyway, so nobody'd be surprised by it.
And she wasn't terribly surprised to find virtually everyone she encountered over the next half hour or so eager to discuss the murders. She was even less surprised to find there was another topic of conversation.
Nell.
At least four people stopped Shelby as she made her way casually through the downtown area, and all of them wanted to talk about Nell.
"Did you hear? Nell Gallagher's been around all this time, just not in town, and you know all this killing started back after her father died___"
"I heard she came back because she knows who the killer is, just the way those Gallaghers always knew things___"
"Did you hear? Nell Gallagher didn't come home just to settle her father's estate, it was because she's afraid Hailey will show up and fight her for it___"
"I heard the sheriff asked her to come back, that's what I heard, so she can give him a reading and tell him who the murderer is…"
Shelby offered no theories of her own but merely listened and smiled and nodded and wondered how people managed to build around the grain of truth that was Nell's homecoming such a range of possibilities. It was fascinating, in a horrifying sort of way.
You didn't have to be psychic to pick up on the feelings of the townspeople. Everybody was scared. They were scared and they were searching for answers. Unfortunately, all too soon, they'd forgo answers and just look for somebody—anybody—to blame for disrupting the town. And with a faceless murderer roaming about apparently beyond the reach of the law and retribution, Nell looked like the odds-on favorite to be that target.
Which made Shelby more determined than ever to find the truth.
"Shelby, you know Nell Gallagher, don't you?"
Shelby snapped a picture to prove she had a reason for loitering around the courthouse and then turned to smile at Sheriff Cole. "Sure, Ethan, I know her. Why?"
He grimaced slightly. "Know where she's been the last dozen years? What she's been doing?"
"Not really. I've heard things, of course, just like you must have, mostly from Hailey before she left, but nothing directly from Nell." This time, her question was more insistent. "Why?"
"I was just curious." He smiled. "Character flaw, you know that."
"I would have thought all your curiosity would be wrapped up in this murder investigation."
Ethan's smile turned wry. "Hell, I'm only human. Nell comes back to town, still gorgeous, apparently still single—and still an enigma. At least, I always thought so. Natural enough for me to be curious."
Shelby raised her eyebrows. "Then why don't you ask her what she's been doing these last years?"
"And feed the gossip?" His voice was as wry as his smile. "People are already talking about Max following her around like a besotted idiot; all I have to do is appear to be even a little interested, and everybody'll have us in some kind of love triangle before you can say soap opera."
"And that would be a wrong impression. Of course."
His eyes narrowed. "Of course."
Shelby decided it was time to change the subject. "I heard you guys haven't made much headway investigating George Caldwell's murder."
"We don't publicize all our findings, Shelby."
"I didn't say I read it, Ethan, I said I heard it. Gossip, you know. Which, in Silence, we have a lot of. I always thought whoever named our town had a real sense of humor."