by Kay Hooper
PRAISE FOR KAY HOOPER’S
BISHOP/SPECIAL CRIMES UNIT NOVELS
“Seethes and sizzles. A fast-paced, atmospheric tale that vibrates with tension, passion, and mystery. Readers will devour it.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz
“Kay Hooper…provide[s] a welcome chill on a hot summer’s day.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“A stirring and evocative thriller.”
—Palo Alto Daily News
“Filled with page-turning suspense.”
—The Sunday Oklahoman
“A well-told, scary story.”
—Toronto Sun
“It passed the ‘stay up late to finish it in one night’ test.”
—The Denver Post
“Harrowing good fun…[Readers] will shiver and shudder.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fans will be captivated—at every turn…[Hooper’s]
creative blend of the paranormal and suspense are truly
distinctive.”
—Suspense Magazine
“You won’t want to turn the lights out after reading this book!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hooper’s unerring story sense and ability to keep the pages flying can’t be denied.”
—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
“Enjoyable…thought-provoking entertainment.”
—Calgary Herald
“A full-force, page-turning, suspense-driven read…It had this reader anxiously gripping the pages.”
—The Mystery Reader
TITLES BY KAY HOOPER
Haven
The First Prophet
THE
FIRST
PROPHET
KAY HOOPER
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
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THE FIRST PROPHET
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove premium edition / December 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Kay Hooper.
Cover photograph copyright © Andy and Michelle Kerry / Trevillion Images.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61336-8
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Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the
author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
THE
FIRST
PROPHET
The Bishop Files
Report
September 22
To Whom It May Concern:
I address this report as I have done because you and I agreed it would be best that your name not appear in any written form, for obvious reasons. Future reports will be submitted in the same format and manner, as requested.
As a brief preface, I will say that in my routine monitoring of various psychics in this country and elsewhere, active and latent, whom I considered candidates for either the Special Crimes Unit or Haven, I found myself becoming suspicious of certain events. I cannot say it was a situation I immediately understood; my understanding, as these reports will make clear, is ongoing as I—and others—slowly piece together the disparate bits of information and actions that are clearly a part of what is going on.
I will also repeat, as I told you when we met, that I intend to take no one else into my confidence unless and until it becomes necessary. Until then, only you and Miranda will be privy to the information I am able to collect.
I cannot say just why I believe something sinister is going on within and around the largely underground psychic community; it is not a certainty I can attribute to either my or my wife’s precognitive abilities. Psychically, we are both…blocked…whenever we turn our attention toward certain events and actions—and people. That alone would have drawn my attention, but there was more. Much more.
I therefore submit the following narrative, assembled from among those involved in the situation that transpired, and from my own firsthand observations and senses as events unfolded. I have no doubt we are a long way from learning the complete story, but herein, I believe, is a good place to begin these reports, detailing a situation that occurred several months ago, and which I believe may prove to be the catalyst that will begin to unlock at least some of the secrecy surrounding these events.
Respectfully submitted,
Noah Bishop, Unit Chief
Special Crimes Unit, FBI
PROLOGUE
They moved with the kind of stealth that came of long experience and grim purpose, and they didn’t waste a motion or make a sound. They numbered no more than half a dozen, not counting the man who stood back from the isolated cabin they had encircled and watched them. He had extremely well-developed night vision.
Through his unobtrusive, almost invisible headset, a whisper reached him.
“She’s not alone. Brodie’s with her.”
He barely hesitated before speaking softly into the microphone. “How long have they been here?”
“The vehicle is cold.”
“Then he’s had time to
call in reinforcements.”
“Maybe. But we have lookouts posted, and no one’s reported any movement toward this position. We may have hours yet.”
“And we may not.” Duran glanced back over his shoulder at what daylight would have shown was a cliff edge no more than a few feet behind him, and a sheer drop to a boulder-littered canyon below. “Brodie chose well; this is an easily defensible position. For him. I don’t propose to be trapped here, and dawn is minutes away. I assume Brodie is armed.”
An unamused chuckle came from the headset. “He usually is. To the teeth. And he’ll go down fighting to protect this one.”
“I know.” Duran wondered absently whether his lieutenant had reached this conclusion because he knew the fragile young psychic inside the cabin very much resembled another young woman Brodie had nearly died trying to protect years before, but the next words he heard through his headset answered that question for him.
“She’d be as valuable to him as to us. If we’re right about her potential, she’s worth ten times her weight in gold.”
“Yes. I need to know what’s going on inside that cabin. Move closer. Carefully.”
Not being psychic himself had its drawbacks, Brodie knew. Like now. How the hell could he tell her she was wrong when he wasn’t sure?
“I have to try,” she insisted, her face too gaunt for a young woman and her eyes far too strained.
“You can’t.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact, having learned at least that psychics as a rule loved a challenge—and young women could rarely resist one. “You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept for two days or eaten since yesterday. Besides that, it’s new to you, not yet under control—”
Her soft laugh was hardly a sound. “If I don’t at least try, it’ll be under their control. They’re here, Brodie. They’re all around us. I can feel them.”
Brodie didn’t let her see the chill he felt crawling up and down his spine. “I can hold them off until our people get here. The sun’ll be up in less than an hour, and the bastards aren’t invisible. Until then, even if they could they wouldn’t bust in with guns blazing, not with you here.”
She was shaking her head, and her voice shook as well. “No, they want me badly. He wants me badly. They might take the risk of wounding me. I think they might. And they’d kill you for sure, you know that.”
“Listen to me.” He held his voice steady, held both her hands tightly, and tried his best to hold her gaze despite the way it darted around in building panic. “The windows are shuttered and, like the door, are made of steel-sheathed solid oak with iron hinges and locks. The walls are two feet thick. There’s no chimney. This cabin is a fortress. They’d have to take it apart to get to us. That’s one of the reasons I picked it.”
She wasn’t listening, wasn’t hearing. “I have to…try. I have to stop them. What they’ll do…You don’t understand, Brodie, what they’ll do to me. You can’t understand.”
“Jill, don’t. Don’t let them panic you into doing something that could destroy you.”
She snatched her hands from his grasp and backed away from him. “I’m afraid of them, don’t you know that? Terrified. I know what they’ll do if they get me. I know. My dreams have shown me. Over and over again. They’ll hurt me. They’ll hurt me in ways you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares.”
“I won’t let them hurt you—”
“You can’t stop them. But I can. I know I can.”
Brodie saw her eyes begin to darken and lose focus, saw her entire body tense as she called on all the energies she had left in a desperate attempt to form some kind of weapon that her panic demanded she try to use to save herself.
And even with only five senses to call his own, Brodie had a terrible premonition. “No! Jill, don’t—”
Duran’s headset crackled softly in his ear, and he pulled it off and stared at it. He was granted only that warning, and only scant seconds to understand what it portended. For him, it was enough.
Without putting the headset back on, he snapped into the microphone, “Remove the headsets. Now.” And dropped his to the ground.
Before it had quite touched the pine needles underfoot, the elegant little electronic device emitted an earsplitting shriek and burst into flames.
Duran looked toward the cabin and his men and saw immediately that two of them had not been quick enough in obeying orders. One lay about thirty feet from the cabin, stretched out on his back as though napping. But from the neck up was little more than a lump of blackened, smoldering flesh.
The other who had hesitated just that instant too long was Duran’s lieutenant. He had, clearly, managed to get the headset off quickly enough to prevent the worst from happening, since it burned a foot or so away from him, but not soon enough to save himself completely. He didn’t make a sound but held his head with both hands and rolled around on the ground in a way that told Duran that at the very least his eardrums had certainly been destroyed.
The others were rushing to their fallen comrades. Duran didn’t move. Instead, he stared at the cabin that was now more visible in the breaking dawn, and very quietly, he murmured, “You shouldn’t have done that, Jill.”
Her body was limp when Brodie picked her up and placed her gently on the couch. She was breathing. Her eyes were open. When he checked, her pulse was steady.
But Jill Harrison was gone.
And she was never coming back.
Brodie had been warned this could happen, but he’d never seen it. And hadn’t believed it possible. Until he knelt there beside the couch in that quiet, quiet cabin and looked into eyes so empty it was like looking into the glassy black eyes of a doll.
Still kneeling at her side, he took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped away the trickles of blood from her nose and ears. He folded her hands in a peaceful pose over her stomach. Absently, he brushed a strand of her hair back from the wide, unlined brow. He closed her eyes.
Jill Harrison. Not dead, but gone.
She had been twenty-two.
After a long, long time, Brodie got to his feet. He felt stiff, and so tired it was beyond exhaustion. He felt old.
“God damn them,” he said quietly.
Duran was the last to leave, remaining there until his dead and wounded men had been taken away by the others. He was about to get into his car when he heard the cabin door open.
Brodie stood in the doorway.
Across the sixty or so feet separating them, through the morning chill, they stared at each other in silence.
Though he knew the other man couldn’t hear him, Duran said softly, “This time, we both lost.”
Then he got into his car and drove away, leaving behind him a young woman damaged beyond repair and a man who was his mortal enemy.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Epilogue
ONE
It had once been an excellent example of an updated Victorian, but now it was only a smoking ruin swarming with fire department personnel. As Tucker Mackenzie got out of his car, he heard the hissing and crackling of embers as they were soaked by the fire hoses, and the pounding of axes as smoldering wood was broken up, and he heard the brisk voices of the men working to make certain the fire would not flare up again. He also heard the whispers of the neighbors who were standing around in clumps, watching her while pretending their attention was focused on what was left of the house.
She stood alone. She looked alone. Her pretty dress was a bit too thin for the hint of cold that was creeping into late September, and she stood almost hugging herself, arms crossed beneath her breasts, hands rubbing up and down above her elbows as
though to warm chilled flesh. Her dark, reddish hair was blowing in the fitful breeze that also snatched at the long skirt of her dress, and she appeared to notice that no more than she noticed she was standing in a muddy puddle left by the fire hoses.
Tucker hesitated, then walked over to her side. Before he could speak, she did.
“Are you the one who’s been watching me?” she asked in a curiously remote voice.
“What?” He had no idea what she meant.
“Never mind,” she said, as if it didn’t really matter. She turned her head to look at him, scanning him upward from his black western boots to his windblown blond hair. Her pale brown eyes rested on his face, wide and startled. More than startled. She looked briefly shocked, even afraid, Tucker thought. But it was a fleeting expression, vanishing completely and leaving behind nothing except her earlier numb detachment. She returned her gaze to what had been her home.
“Someone’s been watching you?” When she didn’t reply or react in any way, he said, “I’m sorry about your home, Miss Gallagher. What started the fire?”
She glanced at the fire marshal, who was standing some distance away scowling at the ruin. “He thinks it’s arson,” she said.
“Is that what he told you?”
“No. He didn’t have to tell me.” She sent Tucker another brief look, this one mildly curious. “Haven’t you heard about the local witch? That’s me.”
“I had heard that you were reputed to have psychic abilities,” he confessed. “I wanted to talk to you—”
“Let me guess.” Her voice went flat, something ground beneath a ruthless heel. “Someone you love has died, recently or a long time ago, and you want to communicate with them. Or you’ve lost something you need to find. You’re suffering unrequited love and want a magic potion to solve that problem. You or someone you know has a horrible disease and you’re searching for a cure. Your life has gone off track, and you don’t know how to right it. Or you want to make a million bucks and need me to pick your lottery numbers…”
