Chapter Three
* * *
SHE FOUGHT HIM, writhing and punching as he kissed her. Jamie seized her hands in one fist—she had no idea what became of the bottle she’d been holding—gripped the back of her head with the other, and threw a long, well-muscled leg over her lap, pinning her to the seat. He was strong; she could barely move, barely breathe... but she could feel.
Where their mouths met, she felt a hot sizzle of electricity. It crackled through her body, igniting her from within. She felt his strength in her own muscles, felt the effort he exerted to hold her still, saw the bright, shifting images that played through his mind like a TV scrolling rapid-fire through all the channels... her eyes, her lips... Tommy Finn looking back over his shoulder...
Can’t let Tommy see me, she thought. No, that was him thinking that. These were James Keegan’s thoughts flooding her brain, James Keegan invading her mind and her body as he held her immobilized.
Such warm lips... I knew they’d feel like this.... Was that her or Keegan? It was maddening, not knowing. She felt exasperated and frustrated and aroused, all at once, and she had no idea whose feelings were whose. He’d plunged his identity into hers, taken over her body and her mind, and the bizarre thing was, he didn’t even know it! He had no idea how open and exposed she was, how vulnerable to this kind of violation. And it was violation, whether he intended it or not.
India whipped her head to the side, breaking the kiss, and gulped air. She felt herself—felt him—tighten his grip on her wrists and shift his weight so that he straddled her. Even as she thrashed wildly, she heard his mental warning to himself not to rest his weight on her; he was too heavy, he’d hurt her.
“Stop struggling,” he rasped against her ear. “He’ll think I’m attacking you.” Would Tommy Finn bother coming to the aid of a lady in distress? Would any of the Finns? She knew that thought must be Keegan’s, because she’d never heard of the Finns. “Is he still watching?”
It took her a moment to realize, through the blizzard of sensation that bombarded her, that he was asking her a question. She peered over his shoulder and saw Tommy Finn grinning back at them, the open gate ignored. “Y-yes, but—”
“Then we’d better give him a good show.” His mouth met hers again, this time more gently. Take it easy... she’s scared. Little burning sparks, like static electricity, tickled her as he pressed his lips to hers. The warmth of the kiss spread through her entire body. Her hands relaxed; he loosened his grip experimentally—She’s not fighting me anymore—then took her arms and wrapped them around his back. Might as well make this look real.
It is real, she thought—he thought?—as his big hands tangled in her hair, his lips moving over hers with a slow, deliberate sensuality that took her breath away. I’ve wanted this all day. She had wanted this all day, she realized, ever since this morning in his office.... Ever since she took those sunglasses off the first time....
Her mental TV clicked on and she saw them again, her eyes, golden and translucent, mysterious and knowing. The most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. She saw more then, in luminous black-and-white: her china doll lips, her pale hands, the shape of her breasts beneath her black sweater. She imagined what they would feel like, cupped in her hands—his hands! Would they be as soft as they looked? Was she wearing a bra? Would he be able to feel their warmth through the sweater?
He couldn’t touch her there—he could barely justify kissing her, could never justify that—but God, he wanted to. His hands itched to slide up under that sweater and feel her bare skin against his palms, fill his hands with her. He imagined how her breasts would feel, weighty and soft, the skin like hot satin. He could almost feel the sensitive nipples responding to his touch, tightening...
India was mesmerized. This was her he was thinking about, her he wanted to touch so intimately. In her mind’s eye she saw a breast, just one, pale and perfect, saw a hand close over it with exquisite tenderness. No man had touched her since Perry—and Perry had never touched her like that, so carefully, as if she were a precious thing, a thing of value.
She felt a warmth and heaviness in her lower body—his lower body—as his hunger uncoiled there, felt his aching flesh stiffen and rise, straining at the button fly of his jeans. Despite her anxiety, India couldn’t help but marvel at this remarkable new sensation. So this was what it felt like to get an erection! She felt his mind focus on the throbbing pressure between his legs; he wanted to press it against her, grind himself into her, relieve the unbearable pressure.
Back off, back off!
That was him, not her. A warning to himself, a command. Shaken, he pulled away from her, yanking his sweatshirt down— Don’t let her see—and said, a little breathlessly, “Is he gone?”
Swallowing hard, India looked at the gate, which was closed. No Trans Am. “Yes.”
He nodded—Better play this cool—then levered himself off of her and folded his big body back into the driver’s seat.
“Oh,” he said, reaching down and retrieving India’s bottle of mineral water, which had rolled onto the floor and soaked the worn rug beneath her feet.
“Sorry,” India said.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said, tossing the bottle in back and turning the key in the ignition. “I’m...” He shook his head, frowning. “Sorry. You understand it was just... it didn’t mean anything. I was just trying to hide my face from—”
“I understand,” India said.
“All right. Good.” He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. India thought about the kiss, and his excuse for it, as he drove in silence. He had no idea, of course, how transparent that excuse was. The kiss, even if it had started as a simple ruse, had quickly become much more than that. Clearly, he intended to pretend it had been business as usual, not knowing how pointless it was to lie to a woman who could read his mind... and feel exactly what he felt.
India toyed with, and rejected, the notion of calling his bluff, repeating his own thoughts and feelings back to him as proof of her powers. For one thing, it would seem as if she were ridiculing his attraction to her, and she found that, despite how conflicted she felt about him, she just couldn’t be that much of a bitch. For another... well, he’d already told her that he would never, “while there’s a sun in the sky and fish in the sea,” believe in her psychic powers. Indeed, he had dismissed her two displays of it—her knowing about the fourth arson note and the tape recording—as amateurish parlor tricks.
India doubted there was any proof he would find convincing. She had learned long ago that, if someone was determined not to believe, no demonstration, no matter how amazing, would make a difference. And Detective Lieutenant James Keegan seemed steadfastly determined not to believe.
“Thought I’d take you on a little detour,” he said, tilting his head toward the side window. “A little tour of West Bonesteel, one of Mansfield’s more humble avenues.”
Why’s he doing this? she thought, looking out at the neighborhood of dilapidated old houses with peeling paint jobs and badly patched roofs.
“That’s the Finn place,” he said, pointing as he drove by at about five miles an hour.
The house was large, and remarkably ugly. What little paint still clung to its ragged shingles was Pepto-Bismol pink, and its rambling porch had collapsed to the ground in several places. Half a dozen vehicles—some on blocks, some not—littered a yard devoid of grass. A swarm of stick-wielding children chased a pack of skinny dogs into the backyard as they passed.
“Tommy Finn lives there?” India asked.
“Him and about twenty other Finns.”
“Twenty?”
Keegan shrugged as he turned the corner and picked up speed. “Maybe more. It’s an extended family situation, and I’ll be damned if I can keep track of the buggers. They’re in and out of the slammer a lot, and they reproduce like cockroaches. Right now, I believe we’ve got about four generations in residence, though. There’s maybe half a dozen males around Tommy’s age—in their twenties, most of th
em—all cousins, and all trouble of one sort or another from the day they were spawned.”
“Including Tommy, I take it.”
“Actually, out of the whole godforsaken lot of them, Tommy’s the only one who’s ever bothered to hold down an honest job. About six months ago, he started doing janitorial work at Lorillard—four to midnight—and he’s kept his nose clean the whole time.”
“Six whole months?” India said sarcastically.
“That’s a lot for a Finn. I’m not making him out to be some kind of angel. God knows he got in enough scrapes while he was growing up. Boosted a few cars, dealt a little grass.” He chuckled. “But he’s a slippery son of a bitch. We never did manage to catch him red-handed.”
India studied Keegan’s profile as he drove: the stubborn jaw, the flash in his eyes. “You sound as if you admire Tommy Finn,” she said.
He seemed to consider that. “I don’t know. Takes a certain talent to live on the edge of the law for years and manage to avoid arrest. It’s no sin to admire talent, no matter what form it takes.”
India nodded thoughtfully. Keegan felt a kinship with Tommy. Interesting. “Your point, Lieutenant?”
He drew in a deep breath and glanced warily at her before returning his gaze to the road. “My point is, Tommy Finn, for whatever reason, seems to be trying to clean up his act. Right now he’s one less Finn for the Mansfield Police Department to worry about. Or was, until you fingered him as the Firefly. Now I’m going to have to order patrolmen who could be doing something useful to stake out the Finn place every night this week just to satisfy—”
“I never said he was the Firefly,” India protested. “I just said I—”
“Saying he’s the guy you saw in your vision pretty much amounts to the same thing, Dr. Cook. Now, what I’m saying is, the kid has gone straight. I don’t know why, and I honestly don’t care.” Anger had thickened his Irish accent, India noted. “I also don’t really care why you happened to pick Tommy Finn out of all the petty criminals in Mansfield to be the scapegoat in this little charade of yours—”
“Scapegoat!”
“What I’m saying is, I’m not going to let you crucify a man who’s very likely innocent just to serve your own—”
“Crucify!”
“You’re playing with people’s lives here, whether you realize it or—”
“Let me out.”
“All right.”
India swallowed her indignation as he pulled the car to the edge of the winding country lane and put it in park. Summoning a passable degree of cool, she got out of the car and slammed the door. “I’ll walk home from here.”
“Won’t be much of a walk,” he said, nodding out the window. “You live right there.”
With some chagrin, India realized that they were on Crescent Lake Road. About twenty yards ahead, she saw the gravel drive that led to her house, and the mailbox topped with the little wooden cat-shaped sign on which was painted India Cook, D.V.M.
She leaned down and looked at him through the window. “Sam was right, Lieutenant. You are a giant, pig-headed pain in the ass.”
“At least we agree on that.” He drove away, grinning.
* * *
“WHAT’S THAT?” THE little girl exclaimed as India inserted the needle into the vial.
“Jessica,” her mother scolded, “let the doctor work.”
“That’s all right.” India smiled reassuringly as she drew the feline rabies vaccine into the syringe. “It’s medicine to keep Gus from getting sick.” The child bit her lip. “Don’t worry, Jessica,” she said as she deftly administered the shot on the animal’s back. “See? He didn’t feel a thing.”
“Wow!”
“Now let’s see how much this big boy weighs.” As India lifted the complacent Persian onto the scale, she heard the outer door to the waiting room open, and wondered who it was, Gus being her first, last, and only appointment that morning.
“Just have a seat,” she called through the open door of the examining room, wishing, not for the first time, that she could afford a receptionist. “I’ll be with you in a—”
She gasped as a dark, imposing figure filled the doorway, then swiftly composed herself when she recognized James Keegan.
“Mommy, that man needs a bath!” Jessica observed.
“Do I ever,” he agreed wearily. When he smiled at the child, India noticed dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked ten years older than he had when he drove away grinning yesterday afternoon.
He wore threadbare jeans, a blue New York Giants sweatshirt, and a gray baseball cap, all heavily smeared with soot. All in all, he looked completely filthy and a hundred percent male. As much as India disliked the man, she had to admit she’d never seen shoulders like that outside of a superhero comic book. There was something about all that masculine brawn that made her feel just slightly giddy—as if she couldn’t decide whether to run and hide or stay and... what? Wrestle him to the ground? Entice him to wrestle her?
Stop it! she scolded herself. This is James Keegan. You’re not supposed to like him, remember? Besides, how could she think about “wrestling” with a man when she couldn’t even bear to be touched? Speaking of which, why, after managing to go four years without giving a second thought to any man, had she picked this one to start getting hung up on?
The sharp odor of woodsmoke clung to him, prompting Jessica to add a disgusted “Pee-you!” to her assessment.
“I heard about the fire on the news this morning,” India said as she heaved Gus off the scale and settled him back onto the examining table. “McGill’s Hardware and Lumber?”
He took off his cap and stuffed it in a back pocket of his jeans. “Now it’s just McGill’s Hardware. The lumberyard’s a smoking pit.”
“Were you there all night?” she asked as she wrote Gus’s weight on his chart.
“Me and the state fire investigator. Since 2:20 a.m., when the alarms sounded. Listen, uh... if you have a minute, there’s something I’d like to show you.” He held up a small metal can on which was taped a white tag with Evidence printed across the top.
“Sure, but I have to finish up here first. Why don’t you wait for me in the kitchen? Through that door and down the hall. Help yourself to some coffee.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
JAMIE BLINKED IN surprise when he walked into the kitchen. It looked so... warm, so inviting, with its buttery yellow walls and sunflower-splashed curtains. He caught a faint whiff of new paint and realized that it was India Cook, not her father, who had created this cheerful room. Not what he would have expected from The Lady in Black. Suddenly eager to explore, he left the evidence can on the brightly tiled kitchen table and wandered across the hall.
Dr. Cook had not yet tackled the dining room, it seemed. Table, chairs, drapes, chandelier... all were coated with a soft, gray layer of dust, including a row of framed photos on top of the china cabinet. Most were enlarged snapshots of Henry Cook and Alden Lorillard in hunting gear, holding up dead animals for the camera.
Most, but not all. There was a photograph of a pre-adolescent India standing in front of a Christmas tree with her father. The print had obviously been cut in half to excise someone from the shot. Squinting, Jamie saw the edge of a red dress. India Cook’s mother? Jamie had assumed, since meeting India, that her father was widowed, it being unusual for a divorced man to retain custody, especially of a daughter. But the truncated family photo would appear to suggest a divorce—and not an amicable one.
Jamie’s eyes were drawn to the last picture in the row—a portrait of India, in a sumptuous wedding gown, posing between two rose-garlanded columns on the portico of a mansion that looked vaguely like the White House. He remembered having once watched wedding footage of Elizabeth Taylor in her breathtaking twenties and thinking it couldn’t get any better than that. But that was before he’d seen India Cook in white satin and beaded lace, her jet hair crowned with lilies, her perfect lips curved in an enigmatic smile, her hypno
tically beautiful eyes gazing straight through the camera at him. Eyes like that could almost make you believe in magic.
Or ESP. He shook his head. One thing he’d learned in his years on the force was not to judge a person’s capacity for corruption based on his or her attractiveness. The most irresistible people could be the most unprincipled, and often were. Sociopaths, for example, although completely self-centered and devoid of conscience, were often extremely charming; they could make their victims believe almost anything. Not that he thought India Cook was a sociopath. But when he looked into those eyes of hers, he felt, despite his better judgment, a powerful urge to believe her.
It was an urge he would have to resist, with every ounce of his will. Because, as he should well know, it was all a show—a scam. But how had a woman like India Cook ended up running a mind-reading con?
Jamie left the dining room by another door and found himself in the front foyer. He hesitated only briefly before sprinting up the wide staircase. An enormous, sunny room beckoned him from the landing. Like the kitchen, it looked freshly redecorated, in shades of cream and ivory. Built into the back wall was an enormous stone fireplace, next to which stood a big, spindle-backed bed. Drawn to the stacks of wooden boxes on the mantel, he swiftly crossed the room.
The boxes varied in size and shape, but they all looked old. He opened one, letting out a long, low whistle at what he found. Nestled within the felt-lined case were two antique guns with carved handles—flintlocks, he realized with astonishment when he noticed the powder flask, loading rod, and other accessories tucked into niches around the guns. A handwritten card attached to the underside of the lid read: “Pair of flintlock traveling pistols, William Smith, London, circa 1800. Original case with fittings.”
Something brushed against his legs, and he flinched when he saw it was a cat—black and white. He took a quick step back. The animal turned and darted out the door.
“Good riddance,” Jamie mumbled.
He opened more cases. There was a midshipman’s dirk from 1805, a sixteen-bore flintlock sporting gun made in 1820 for the sixth Duke of Bedford, a Japanese wakizashi blade, several Indian thrusting daggers, an English fowling piece, circa 1725—
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