by A J Sherwood
“A lot,” I commiserated, just as aggravated. So nothing useful, eh?
Gonzalez paused at a closed white door and added with a pointed look, “But interesting thing to note: Myers was faceup when we found her.”
That certainly caught our attention. Donovan and I exchanged a look. None of the other victims had been found facing up; they’d all been flat on their faces. If Myers was found up, had she managed to catch a glimpse of this man’s face?
“Interesting, like I said,” Gonzalez agreed, eyebrows arching significantly. Without another word, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Here we are. Bane, Havili, this is my husband and partner, Marc Gonzalez.”
Marc looked exotic. No other word for it. He had a patrician nose, deep olive skin, mink black hair, and a ready smile that made him very approachable. He was handsome, but not in a perfect sense, and his aura gleamed like a sunny day. I had a gut feeling I was going to like this man.
He extended a hand in welcome. “Hi, nice to meet you. Oh wow. You’re very strong.”
I paused with my hand still clasped in his. Only now did I realize Gonzalez hadn’t mentioned what type of psychic Marc was. It took me a moment to read his type. All psychics carry their talent around with them in their head and sometimes along their heart lines. Marc’s was very clearly defined in the white markings along his cranial cavity. The lines making up the core of his psychic ability were ones I’d seen before, twice. Tracers were more common for psychics, but that didn’t make them commonplace. Perhaps one in a thousand was a Tracer. He could take the energy of a living person from an object and trace that energy straight to the person. It was incredibly useful for investigations, assuming the Tracer was strong enough to cover any real distance. This man was stronger than most.
Regarding him thoughtfully, I said slowly, “You’re a Tracer.”
“Damn, your eyes really are that good, huh? No wonder you fry everything around you.” Marc dissected me in a heartbeat, those nearly black eyes penetrating. “Your energy’s pretty hot, my friend. I bet you can’t shut your ability off at all.”
“It’s on constantly,” I agreed ruefully. So he read auras in terms of temperature? Interesting. “Hence my Elektra effect on electronics. This is my anchor, Donovan.”
Marc shifted to shake Donovan’s hand, then startled visibly. “Wow. Damn. You’re hotter than a hand grenade. Havili…any relation to Brandon Havili?”
Donovan’s head jerked back, mouth dropping open for a moment. “You know my brother?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. He saved my bacon on a case about three months ago. I tried to recruit him and he just laughed. Said he had enough on his plate as it was.” Eyes narrowed, Marc demanded, “Are all you Havilis like this?”
“All of them,” I confirmed cheerfully. Tracers couldn’t see auras the way I did, but they read the energy of people very well, which meant this was the first psychic I’d met who could appreciate just how brightly Donovan shone. It pleased me immensely.
“Damn, I need to just somehow shanghai your whole family. Your brother first.” Marc groaned in true regret. “He’s good at SWAT but I feel like he’s wasting his talents too. Maybe I still have a chance at it. He’ll make an amazing anchor for someone.”
“That he will.” I winked at Donovan as I said it, and he shrugged in agreement.
“You’re getting sidetracked,” Gonzalez informed his husband. “Make your evil plans later. What did we find?”
“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Carol said, leaving the table where she’d set up her reading and sitting down with a sigh. Everyone else was already settled around the table, looking quite comfortable, as if they’d been there for a while. Well, Garrett and Sharon were settled, Sho was still manning the camera. We joined them, taking up the remaining chairs as Carol filled us in. “The bat was oddly clean of energy. It left no psychic thread to tug at.”
“And because he stole it, he had no sense of ownership of it; I barely got a whiff of energy from him,” Marc added sourly. “We’ve not got much at this point. Look, I’ll be honest, we’re up against a wall here, and our best witness is down in a coma the doctors refuse to release her from. They want to give her another week, let her brain heal, as she got hit pretty hard. Scrambled her up good. I’d normally be patient enough to wait a week, but considering this guy’s track record…”
My eyes narrowed as I studied him. I had a feeling where this was going. “You want me to do a level three reading on her.”
Marc put both hands together in prayer fashion. “Please?”
Donovan growled low in his throat. “No way in hell.”
I admit, my first instinctual reaction was the same. Having had a refresher course on how brutal a level three could be, performing another reading when I was still recovering from the first one sounded about as fun as a barrel full of monkeys with Ebola. Did I want to do this? No. Especially since I just promised Donovan this morning I wouldn’t do another level three again in the near future.
Still, something kept me from immediately shutting them down. We were still in the same boat of not having enough information to find the murderer. But unlike last time, there was a very good chance Myers had seen something before she went down. If this reading wasn’t in vain, would it be enough to convince myself to do it? I wasn’t sure. “Marc, level with me. How sure are you that she saw something?”
Whipping his head around, Donovan protested again, louder. “Jon! No. Absolutely not. You’re barely on your feet as it is!”
I held up a hand, staying him, my eyes never leaving Marc’s.
“Pretty damn sure,” Marc answered hopefully, although his eyes kept darting uneasily to the unhappy man at my side. “For one, she wasn’t hit on the back of the head, but on the side of it. She’s got defensive wounds on her arms. I’m pretty sure he tried to get the drop on her, only it failed, no surprise. She’s trained for ambushes. He got into a physical fight with her and somehow managed to get past her guard with the bat. Her left arm’s broken, and we believe she blocked most of the blow to her head, which is why she survived it.”
“So we’ve got a very good chance at seeing what this man looks like.” Knowing that made all the difference. I wouldn’t be taking a blind shot in the dark; I could give us the vital piece of information we needed to nail this guy. That tipped the scales for me. Would I hate doing this again in the same week? You bet your britches. But it would save a life. And as long as someone’s life was on the line, I’d do a level three.
Now came the hard part.
I turned to face Donovan, and one look at his aura made me wince. He glared at me, meridian lines hot rod red in anger, like a volcano ready to boil over. Both arms were crossed over his chest, face rigid as stone. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, watching uneasily to see how this would pan out.
I didn’t need to ask. Anyone who really knew him understood why he was completely against this. He now knew firsthand what a level three reading did to me. Especially now, with it fresh in his mind, he’d naturally be against this. He hated every second of pain I felt, and unfortunately, he was right—I was barely up and moving as it was. Doing another level three reading now would lay me out flat for more than two days. Worse, I’d just promised him I wouldn’t do this anytime soon.
Still…I couldn’t in good conscience push this off another two days just because I had a headache. Lives were literally at stake. Any sort of delay could directly impact another woman, another family, and I didn’t want that on my conscience for the rest of my life.
He must have read the determination on my face, because he bit off a hard, “No.”
I kept my tone gentle, persuasive. “Donovan—”
“No,” he repeated, more forcibly. “Fucking hell, no.”
“Sweetheart, there really isn’t another good option.”
“You,” he growled low in this throat, “are my priority. The rest of the world can go hang.”
I gave him a quick smile
because I knew he only meant about half of that. Lifting my hand, I touched his arm gently, trying to convey my message with both touch and words. “The woman on that bed needs our protection. The women who live in this area, who don’t have that kind of defensive training, need our protection. Donovan….”
He snarled, unhappy and prickly as a grizzly bear rising early from hibernation. I could see the calculations in his eyes; he realized he wouldn’t win the argument so went with a compromise instead. “Fine. Fine, but if you want to do this, you wait another two days at least.”
“Two days could mean another victim,” I argued, still in a gentle tone. “I can’t have that death on my conscience.”
He gripped the back of his neck with both hands, struggling with this, hating every word out of my mouth and realizing I was right. Abruptly, he turned and threw a fist into the wall, punching straight through the drywall. Everyone jumped as he did it, even me. I’d never seen Donovan lose his temper before. Not like this. Pulling it free, he stood there shaking, not looking at anyone, just staring blankly at the wall.
I’d known I’d scared him. I’d known he hated seeing me in that much pain. I’d known he loved me down to the very core of his being. But I don’t think I really understood that—not until this moment, when I saw how much my choice cost him. My desire to help directly clashed with his need to protect me and the fallout, emotionally speaking, was brutal.
Feeling guilty for pushing this, I closed in and wrapped both arms around his waist, hugging him from behind. In a whisper, I said the only thing I could think of. “Sorry.”
“I hate you very much right now.”
Remembering the last time he’d said that to me, I smiled. “I know. I’ll make it up to you?”
“There better be handcuffs involved.” Donovan blew out a breath. I saw resignation enter him, the anger dulling to muted embers. Turning, he snugged me in a little closer with one arm, pointing to the two FBI agents with the other. “He does this on two conditions. One, this is the last fucking time he does it for this case. I don’t care what else happens, how necessary it is, he doesn’t do this again.”
Both agents looked at each other, exchanging a silent communication, before looking at me.
Snapping his fingers, Donovan growled at them, “Don’t look at him. Look at me. I’m the mean one in this relationship. You don’t get to him unless you go through me. This is the last time, yes or no?”
Marc seemed both amused and intrigued by this dynamic, but I really had no argument to Donovan’s assertion. Relatively speaking, he was meaner, but only because his protective instincts came into play.
Marc seemed to realize this, at least enough to shrug and agree. “Yes, okay. Last time. Second condition?”
“You don’t call him back in for four days after the reading.”
“I’ll be pretty much useless for three days anyway,” I chimed in.
Gonzalez had the sense to nod immediately. “Deal. I’ll call her family and get consent established. Bane, what else do you need to do this?”
“Psy-Aid, twenty minutes of meditation, and someone to drive us home. Preferably Sho.”
Garrett, sitting in the corner of the room, snickered. “Aww, come on, I want another free show.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. “You can shut up. Sho?”
“Sure,” Sho agreed slowly. He leaned into Garrett’s side and whispered loudly, “What show?”
“Oh, let me tell you all about it,” Garrett answered, not bothering to lower his voice, eyebrows waggling mischievously as he looked at me.
Groaning, I glared back at him. I was never going to live it down, was I?
14
Lieutenant Kristen Myers looked very different than the photo I’d seen of her. Lying in a hospital bed, wrapped up in white bandages, blue hospital gown, and white bedding, she seemed far more fragile. It grieved me to see a strong woman on her back like this, although part of me was damned proud someone in uniform had been strong enough to take this madman on. It would cost Jon considerably to do this—I knew it would, and I hated that. But if we had to do it, I prayed she saw something we could use to get her attacker.
Jon had taken the Psy-Aid exactly ten minutes ago, trying to keep his window of rationality as close to this interview as possible. I didn’t blame him, considering what happened last time. What I didn’t have the heart to tell him was that once again, Garrett would be driving. Sho’d just sent me a text apologizing for ducking out, but the FBI needed an extra hand for when they did get a police sketch from Jon, which meant he needed to stay here.
I decided to let him figure things out on his own. Assuming he was aware enough of his surroundings later to put it together who was driving.
Gonzalez and Marc both stayed in the hospital room with us, Gonzalez manning the camera and keeping well clear in a corner, as far from Jon as possible. Jon looked up, nodded in signal, then stated clearly for the camera, “It is August 10th, 2019, 12:03 p.m. I’m Jonathan Bane, psychic with Psy Consulting Agency, License number 1096643. I will perform a telepathic reading of Lieutenant Kristen Myers to determine if she witnessed her attacker.”
That said, he put a hand on hers—the only one he could reach without encountering a bandage—and focused. It was eerie watching this part of it. When Jon performed a level three reading, his entire focus shifted. He wasn’t really in his own head—or at least, that was what it looked like. I could look into his face and tell the lights might be on but there was no one home. It almost looked like an absence seizure, he was that blank.
His breathing deepened, eyes glazing over like a stoner blitzed out on a hit. He sat there for several minutes before a satisfied smile curled his lips up, much like a Cheshire cat’s.
“She saw him. She’s exiting the store, wearing a dress uniform for a funeral, has plans to change immediately when back at the house. She senses something, the windows of her car reflect a figure coming up behind her. She turns, drops her purse, arms up and ready to defend. He swings with the bat, misses. She throws several punches, either striking or evading. Harder to move in the dress uniform, skirt and heels hampering a bit, and he moves strangely, unpredictable. He’s screaming: ‘I have to get it off you. Let me get it off! Hold still, dammit, I can’t hit it, hold still!’”
What the hell? Get what off? That made no sense to me. I glanced at the two FBI agents but they seemed equally clueless, although Gonzalez had a look in his eye that suggested this somehow reminded him of something else.
Jon’s voice fell into a cadence, weirdly pitched higher than his normal tone, as if he were mimicking the way Meyers spoke. It wasn’t fun, like an impersonation. The hard undertone made it sinister. I shifted uneasily, not liking any part of this. It eerily reminded me of a possession.
“More blows exchanged, the heels she’s wearing skitters a little, throws her off balance just enough to give him an opening; she realizes it even as he swings the bat at her. Her arms go up to protect her head, something hard hits her—intense pain, then blackness.” Drawing back, Jon sighed, then winced. “Secondhand head trauma. Lovely. Marc, let’s get that sketch done quickly.”
Marc immediately sat, a sketchbook in his lap, pencil poised and at the ready. “Go.”
Jon rattled off traits in a dull, rapid-fire precision. “Attacker’s 6’3”, Caucasian male, scruffy beard down to his sternum, dark brown hair, beard more reddish in tone. Thick, bushy eyebrows, hooked nose that’s been broken and set wrong, blue eyes. He’s gaunt, almost starved, stunk to high heaven. Obviously hasn’t washed in a while. Eyes weren’t tracking quite right, missing a bottom front tooth.”
As he spoke, Marc’s hand was a blur on the page. I knew it would take him more than a few minutes to take all those traits and put them into a viable picture, and I didn’t want Jon sitting in this bright, sunny hospital room with so much light impacting him for no reason. I pulled an eye mask from a side pouch of my pants and slipped it around his head, giving him a way to lean against
me on the stool even as I put the mask on. Jon helped me adjust it so it rested properly over his face, then leaned against my stomach with a sigh of relief.
Damn, this was going to go so poorly. He probably wouldn’t even try to jump my bones later. He’d be washed out or curled up in pain for the next two days. I guaranteed it.
Marc kept drawing but started asking questions as he did. “Chin?”
“Not much different from mine, a touch narrower,” Jon offered, not shifting his position.
“Mouth?”
“Thin, pencil thin.”
“Eyes?”
“Symmetrical, set evenly apart. Hard to see; he had bangs half-way into his eyes.”
Marc took an eraser to part of the drawing, changing it, then continued sketching quickly. I’d been initially surprised he could draw, but then he explained to me that in the early days, before he’d become FBI, drawing was the only way he knew of to explain where something was. He could draw its setting or the person holding it, making it easier to track things down. It gave everyone a visual to what was inside his head without forcing another psychic to link him up with someone else.
Which, actually, I didn’t know psychics could do—mentally link together. Sounded rather cool but also kind of…invasive? I surely wouldn’t want to do it, anyway. Jon apparently had done it before, as he agreed they could do it to him if absolutely necessary, but not straight off a level three reading. He’d put his foot down, insisting he have time to recover from this. Doing a mental link up now would be painful for everyone involved.
I was glad to see him put his foot down on something. My Jon’s entirely too nice and helpful for his own good sometimes.
Marc spent another ten minutes frantically drawing before flipping the sketch over and asking, “How’s this?”
Jon lifted a corner of his eye mask, carefully studying the drawing before dropping it again. “Cheekbones are more prominent. Face is a little longer, too. Higher forehead and longer chin. Bangs were scraggily, not thick.”
