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Paths Less Traveled
Flashes of Life
Lightning Strikes
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Nancy DiMauro
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An imprint of
Musa Publishing
Copyright Information
Paths Less Traveled, Copyright © 2012 by Nancy DiMauro
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
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Musa Publishing
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Lancaster, OH 43130
www.musapublishing.com
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Published by Musa Publishing, May 2012
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-1-61937-170-5
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Editor: Jennifer Ayers
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Content Statement
People think of writing as a solitary occupation, but there comes a point when a village is needed. So, I dedicate this book to my village: my husband, Matt, and our boys, Bobby and Mikey (who put up with all the times I sent them away so I could write); my parents (who suffered through all the worlds my mind visited when they really wanted me to clean my room); Colette Veron, who introduced me to Celina Summers and who in turn asked me to submit to Musa; my editors at Musa; Matt Teel and Jennifer Ayers; Kelly Shorten for the fabulous cover art, and Coreen Montagna for the interior art. Without their help and support, Paths Less Traveled would still be just an idea. Thank you all.
Flashes of Life
BLUE LIGHTS STROBED THE façade of the white pre-fabbed Colonial. Officers clustered around the grounds like bees who’d lost the ability to recognize the honey dance. The police called someone like me in when things were a little…different. A little off the beaten path. A little…paranormal.
My mentor ensured my first case was a homicide. Jonathan assigned me to Rick Muller, a detective known for taking his psychic to murder scenes and burning them out as a result. Jonathan had snickered when he’d told me I was needed on scene, and said he’d be seeing more of me soon. My gut clenched as I neared the house. The use of nuclear weapons during the third world war released enough radiation to mutate DNA, and in the process, a portion of the population became something more than human.
We barely survived the resulting fourth world war. As a sensate, I could serve my fellow beings or be consigned to the breeding program. Hence Jonathan’s reference to seeing more of me. He was the first male on my list. The program was considered progress, not slavery. It grated on Jonathan that I’d accepted the assignment to the DC police force rather than mate with him.
A blonde female officer growled as I bent to slide under the yellow police tape. Her aura flicked with the burnt amber of authority and a hint of annoyance. She was going to eject me from the scene. I straightened. Her jaw snapped shut as she took in my white leather outfit and gloves, the outward sign of my other-than-human status. Silver surprise limed her before changing to puce and signaling her disgust. Her gaze flicked to the emblem bearing the Greek letter Psi on my chest, and then skittered away.
Great. An insen with issues. Not a promising start for my first assignment.
“Credentials,” the officer snapped without hint of the professionalism the DC force had come to be known for after the wars.
I straightened, and my gaze narrowed on the other woman’s badge. Being a sensate had a number of advantages, not the least of which was that most insens were afraid of us. No one would scare me off this assignment.
“A pleasure to meet you, Officer Williams. I’m Vonna Sinya, the assigned Psionic. Detective Muller is waiting for me.”
Williams tapped her commlink and turned her back.
The Corps taught psychics how to concentrate. Even over the sursussage of a passing car’s tires on the still damp road, the squawk of com chatter, and the morgue technicians unfolding a gurney, I heard Officer Williams speak.
“The Charlie’s here,” Williams whispered.
Charlie-short for charlatan.
The word burned across my skin. It’s what the insens called psychics despite the scientific proof of our existence. I drove my fingernails into my palms. The white leather gloves only transferred the barest pressure to my hand. Recently graduated from Psy Corp, the gloves were a new addition to my wardrobe.
The gloves chaffed.
“He’ll be with you in a moment,” Officer Williams said over her shoulder.
I let my gaze stroll over the scene to keep my feet from doing the same. The neighborhood was comprised of the prefab Colonials erected en-mass after World War IV. The construction was supposed to lend an air of old world grace to a world recreated from glass and plastic. Now, forty years later, the buildings looked like overweight women with runs in their stockings and wearing clothes fashionable in their youth. Splashes of color dotted the neighborhood from flowers planted in data pad-sized gardens by a few residents who tried to break the institutional feel of the place. Officers trampled the yellow and red blooms in front of the house. Beautiful heads hung limp from bent stems. My shoulders slumped. Someone had loved those flowers, and now no one could be bothered to notice-much less sidestep them.
The house’s door banged shut. A man in a dark colored suit, Muller, I would guess, paused to talk to the officer on duty. Even at this distance, waves of authority rippled around him. I ran my hands down the sides of my pants. It did nothing to alleviate the sweat accumulating inside the damned gloves. I wouldn’t screw this up.
Jonathan’s laugh rang in my ears. You’ll puke your guts out and be back within an hour. He was so confident that I couldn’t handle a murder.
I’d prove Jonathan wrong. I could do this. I would do this.
Muller strode briskly toward me. Med techs paused as they passed him. With a nod, they scuttled into the building.
“Let her pass,” he said as he approached. “Ms. Sinya, nice to meet you.” He looked down at his hand, and then dusted it off on his pants before extending it.
Officer Williams, who’d been watching out of the corner of her eye, gasped.
Touching a psychic was the equivalent of offering your throat to a hungry vampire. The corners of his eyes tightened, making the three crow’s feet under each one stand out from his skin. He wasn’t as sanguine about his offer as he’d like me to believe. He knew psychics were a threat even when smothered in leather. Maybe especially then. Still, the alpha dog was offering me a place in the pack and hoping I didn’t challenge his authority.
I pasted a smile on and grasped his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please call me, Vonna.”
“Rick.” He lifted the tape. “First murder?”
I ducked under the line separating cops from little people. “My first crime scene.”
He shifted a step back. “Why do I get the newbies?”
Coverin
g a crime scene with a sensate was different than covering one with a green sensate, apparently. The ripple of his authority shimmered with unease.
“Because you’re willing to shake hands with us?”
The change in his mood was so rapid that his bark of laughter and bright blue slash of humor startled me. “That may be it.” He walked toward the house. His pace was half the speed of his departure. “Main talent?”
A rash of heat flamed across my features. “We don’t know.”
Muller stopped and turned. “The Company does not let unknown psionics wander the streets, much less join active investigations. It’s not like I just asked your favorite sexual position.”
The Company was a pejorative term for Psy Corp. I’d heard it referred to an ancient song about owing your soul to the Company you worked for. If so, it wasn’t a misnomer. Psyonics Corporation had stepped into the void with promises to control the sensates for the benefit of all. Legislation sprang up requiring all sensates to register with Psy Corp on pains of capture and lobodomization.
“I’m a thirty-seven.”
“Excuse me?” Muller went pale in the flashing blue lights.
Psionics were rated on a thirty-eight point scale. Don’t ask me how these things are figured—I have no idea. Level thirty-eight was a hypothetical much like thirty-seven had been before I’d been tested.
Despite the pit in my stomach at what might await me in the house, I smiled. “Just realize what you’ve given your hand to?”
“Wondering what in hell the Company just unleashed on society. How do you not know your prime talent?”
Most psychics had one or two abilities where they excelled. The Corps tested everyone for potential. Once confirmed, it began more detailed study to categorize the sensate’s nuances and ripples in power. Until I was tested, every sensate left with a known strength and prime talent. I had rather unremarkable talents in a number of areas and something…something Psy Corp couldn’t test for, that went nearly off the scales. So, I’m a thirty-seventh level psychic, even if no one was quite sure what I could do. It was one of the reasons throwing me into the field was so important. Using my talents was the best way to get them to materialize.
“I have the basic psych set and police procedure training. I’ll be able to assist.”
I took a step forward. He put an arm out to bar my path. Brave man. That was the second time in less than two minutes he’d touched me.
He dropped his voice so it was nearly lost in the background noise. “I’m not letting a primed nuclear warhead interact with my people. What exactly do you mean?”
I grit my teeth. “Whatever is pumping me into the thirties can’t be quantified, but it’s not offensive.” That testing had been particularly unpleasant. “Psy Corps thought it time to field test my abilities.” Sort of.
“Non-offensive?”
“Correct.”
“Well, then.” He rubbed the light stubble on his chin. “Let’s road test you.”
A sigh eased out of me. He could have refused me. I’d have been sent back to Psy Corp in shame, and consigned to a fate I wanted no part of. As I said, Muller was a brave man.
The navy-blue front door opened into a cathedral hallway. The chair rail gleamed. My gloved fingers slid over it. The scent of orange wafted up. Oil slicked the tips of my gloves. Someone loved this tacky little house.
“No touching,” Muller said.
I yanked my fingers back.
“Impression?” he asked in a milder tone.
I closed my eyes to block out my mundane senses. Goose flesh ran up my arms. Air fought its way into my lungs.
*Small. I want to be small. Don’t see me.*
The urge to hide gnawed and made my toes twitch. Shards of anxiety filled the air, but the edges were dulled like beach glass.
“Fear,” I said.
Muller snorted. “Not surprising. It is a murder scene.”
I shook my head. “Whatever happened tonight didn’t happen in this hall. This is old. Constant.” I opened my eyes. “Sort of like gym bag stink. You can wash it, but the scent never really goes away.”
A flicker of silver surprise tinted the colors rolling around Muller. Another abnormality in my makeup. Most psionics felt emotion. I saw it as often as not. Muller’s golden hue indicated his quiet confidence. The streaks of olive indicated anxiety, probably a result of having a new recruit, me, at the scene. An emotion I didn’t recognize, the color of a dirty Band-Air stained with old blood, tinted everything. It was like disgust and resignation mixed with resolve but more than that. Over time I’d come to recognize the color as a cop’s grim determination to catch the bastard who caused harm.
“The scene’s in the back.” Muller nodded down the hallway.
All post-emergence prefab housing followed the same layout. The kitchen lay where Muller indicted. Walking down the hallway—I did not drag my feet—I caught a glimpse of an immaculate living area. The beige sofa and arm chair were worn but unstained. A vase of daisies sat on a side table. The vid consul retracted behind a simulated oil painting of some bucolic setting.
No dust bunnies huddled in corners. Not a single cobweb hung from the ceiling. The walls held photos of a young girl, but none of the usual spore, toys, shoes, and other debris, gave proof of her existence. It reminded me of a set from one of the ancient flat screen shows. I could almost envision the plastic wrap covering the furniture to prevent the unworthy from sullying this idealized picture of family life. The sense of a woman who loved this place, despite its horrors, came again.
My nose wrinkled as the scent of orange oil gave way to something dark and rotten.
“Coming?” Muller asked, his hand on the door knob.
It was only then I realized that I’d stopped walking. I didn’t want to see what was in that kitchen. But if I didn’t…I swallowed and took one last breath.
“Of course.” My voice barely shook. Really, it did.
Muller pushed open the door.
Why would anyone paint a kitchen wall red? But no, that wasn’t paint. Oh God.
I squeezed my eyes closed. Emotions buffeted me. The hot red of anger. The gray of despair. The deep burgundy of panic. Slashes of dirty Band-Aid colored points of the room. The next breath drew a rotten meat smell deep into my lungs. Bile clawed its way up my throat.
I would not throw up. I would not prove Jonathan right.
Pulling on my training, I envisioned a doppelganger formed from the part of my brain gibbering in fear at the scene before me. I stepped aside leaving the second me raging in my wake. I opened my eyes.
“You okay?” Muller asked. Concern etched his aura.
“Fine.” The word was tight and clipped. “Let’s get to work.”
Separated from my emotions, I took in the details. An officer snapped photographs while others dropped numbered markers by possible evidence. Near the stove, a woman—a body—lay curled in a fetal position. From the doorway it was impossible to tell what color her dress had been before it’d been bathed in blood…This time when I closed my eyes I felt moisture collect in the corners of my eyes. I strengthened the image of my doppelganger and pushed more emotion into it. I would do this.
“There’s no shame in stepping out.” Worry swirled in Muller’s gold aura now.
“I’m fine,” I said in a stronger tone.
His gaze narrowed. What I wouldn’t give to listen in on his thoughts, but it’s prohibited. And I was having a hard enough time buffering the emotional clouds hanging over this place. His lips compressed slightly, then Muller nodded.
“Anything?”
“Give me a minute.”
I winnowed my focus down. Eyes fastened on the woman.
“She was frightened.” I heard myself say.
A passing officer snorted in disgust. The swirls of dirty Band-Aid and puce made my stomach roll again.
“Given that she was probably chased across the kitchen by some knife-wielding maniac, that’s a good guess. Give me somet
hing useful.”
I shook my head. “There’s too much interference. Too many people and emotions. It’s going to take me some time to filter them down.”
Muller put his hand on my shoulder and yanked it back. Not quite a pat on the back but as close as anyone’d come in a very long time. “It might take you a couple of times at a murder scene before you get anything useful.”
Anger flushed me. How dare he dismiss me? He was as bad as Jonathan. I’d said I could do this. I just needed a minute. Damned men and their impossible deadlines.
“I need contact.” I didn’t want to touch the body. Didn’t want to roll it over so I could see whatever was left of the woman’s face. Or worse, have her dead eyes stare through me. My stomach roiled. I edged forward.
Muller stepped in front of me. “Not until the scene is processed. Can’t have you accidently tainting evidence.”
“I’ve taken basic procedure.”
“No one touches my crime scenes until I say so. Wait in the living room. I’ll call you when you can have access.” He nodded at a tech, medical or forensic, I couldn’t tell. The woman stood. He took another step into the kitchen, partially shutting the door behind him. Pushing me to back out.
I grabbed the edge of the door and stopped it. “There has to be something you’ve processed.”
Muller cocked his head at the tech.
“Over there.” She pointed at a half-counter on the other side of the kitchen. Numbered tags sat on its surface. One hanging off a knife block, which rested on its side, a knife missing.
“See if you can get anything,” Muller said. “Just don’t disturb the markers.”
I nodded and walked over.
The countertop had a fine gray dust covering it. Its presence seemed more of an obscenity than the body resting ten feet away. The woman who loved this house wouldn’t have tolerated the grime. But then, she was likely past the point of tolerating anything now.
On the other side of the counter was a small breakfast nook. Bench seats encircled all but one side. A large armless chair dominated the grouping. It hadn’t come with the nook but been dragged out from a larger, grander set. Whoever sat there controlled the movement of the rest of the table. The other occupants would have slid past the chair to sit at or leave the table. Had the woman held that position so she could serve her family? That didn’t feel right.
Paths Less Traveled Page 1
