by Kay Hooper
“The thing is, Haven operatives tend to ‘mirror’ SCU agents when it comes to psychic abilities. So they have telepaths and empaths and mediums, too. Along with some . . . unusual variations, some of which are very difficult to contain, much less control. And quite of few of the psychics lack the temperament for even an unusual law enforcement position.”
Trinity nodded immediately in understanding. “So in looking for people to build his Special Crimes Unit, Bishop had found himself quite a few psychics who just didn’t fit into the FBI mold.”
“You’ve got it. Being Bishop, he didn’t want to waste all that talent. I’m sure it was in the back of his mind to try some means of utilizing it. And then John Garrett came along, the perfect ally. So—Haven. We often pool resources, from information to advances in how to better control our abilities. But Haven operatives, most of them based in different places all over the country, tend to have assignments that look more like a series of temp jobs. It suits them. It suits the organization, gives them a lot of flexibility.”
“So, anyway,” Deacon said, “Callie isn’t really available. Unless communicating telepathically with Braden becomes imperative, we’re on our own there.”
“Lovely.”
“Well,” Hollis said, “you never really know about us. We learn new things all the time.”
“You aren’t a telepath,” DeMarco told her, a faint warning note in his even tone.
“I know that. I wasn’t actually talking about myself.”
“No?”
“No.” Avoiding his steady gaze, she realized that the dog was still looking at her intently, something in those brown eyes almost eerily intelligent, and even though she liked dogs, she was nevertheless vaguely surprised that it didn’t make her uncomfortable.
In truth, it bothered her far less than DeMarco’s watchfulness.
“Generally speaking,” she told Trinity, “it’s difficult enough to have a mental connection with another person, even when you speak the same language and understand the same concepts. Another species . . . Well, you can imagine. As smart as they are, and as long as they’ve been domesticated—living with us, learning to work with us, understanding at least some of our language, and watching us the whole time so they catch even nuances of expression—dogs still don’t think the way we do. Communication has to be . . . fine-tuned on both sides. So far, Callie’s the only person Bishop has found with that ability, and like we said, she’s still exploring the limits of it.”
“So what you’re telling me is that it doesn’t really matter to the investigation that Braden apparently knew about the victim before anyone other than the killer knew about him.”
Hollis returned the dog’s steady gaze for a moment, then looked at the sheriff. “Oh, no. No, that’s not what I’m telling you at all. What I’m telling you is that telepathic communication with him probably won’t be the way he helps us.”
Somewhat warily, Deacon asked, “What other way? You mean leading us to more murder victims?”
The words had barely left his lips when Braden’s head almost whipped around, his gaze directed toward one of the windows. And then he was out of his chair and at the door, looking back at the sheriff with so much meaning that every single one of them recalled an old TV series about an uncannily intelligent collie able to guide people in and out of dangerous situations.
“Timmy’s down the well,” DeMarco murmured.
—
TOBY GILMORE HAD never really believed in fortune-telling, not really. It was just a fun thing, the tarot cards. Like the Ouija board she sometimes produced for parties.
Just something fun. And something a bit out of the ordinary for a place like Sociable.
Maybe her way of rebelling, however minor the rebellion. Or maybe just her way of having a “thing” all her own.
But this . . . there was nothing fun about this. This was different.
This was something new.
She looked at the clock on her desk, then lifted her gaze to note that not even foot traffic passed her window on this chilly February afternoon. She knew it wasn’t the chill of the weather keeping people inside so much as the chill of murder.
Surely I don’t see in the cards what I think I see.
She gathered up the cards, shuffled them briskly, her eyes closed as she concentrated on something very specific this time. The Group. Not victims or killers or strangers. Just The Group. She thought of them one by one, named them in her mind, thought about personalities and expressions. Strengths and weaknesses.
She dealt her favorite layout.
By the time she placed the last card carefully, she could see her fingers quivering.
Same thing. The same dozen or so cards. The death card central to the pattern. Three strangers coming, because of Melanie. Three people who . . . were different. Because they had faced evil and because of something else as well.
Because they hunted monsters. Not the monsters of legend and fairy tale, not those. Real monsters. Human monsters. They didn’t run from them as most everyone else did. No, these three sought out monsters, deliberately, facing them. Hunting them. Fighting them.
And defeating them, at least so far.
But not without cost. Each of the three bore scars, inner ones if not outwardly visible ones. Bad. Bad scars. Each, in their own unique way, had suffered from the touch of evil. And yet they elected to continue, to center their lives around a battle against monsters.
A battle they would never truly win.
Because evil had always existed, and always would. No matter how many times they hunted it, fought it, defeated it. No matter how much of themselves they risked in the battle. No matter how many friends and comrades were lost along the way . . .
Toby sat there at her desk for a long time, staring toward the front window without even noticing the occasional car passing or the spectacular scenery that was the valley below Sociable and the mountains in the distance.
She didn’t believe.
Not really believe.
So it didn’t matter, did it? Whatever the cards showed her—whatever she thought they showed her—didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t real. They were just cards, and what she felt was only fear because a friend—a former lover—had been murdered.
Something horrible had happened in her normal world, and she wanted to understand, to see, to maybe know how to make things all right again.
That was all it was.
Still, it took every ounce of strength and courage Toby could summon to force herself to look down at the tarot layout she had dealt moments before.
It was different. Not the layout she had dealt.
Worse. So much worse.
Toby felt as if something invisible were squeezing her, because it was hard to breathe. She had to concentrate. She had to make herself breathe.
She had to force herself to look up again.
Outside the window, a couple passed, talking to each other. A car drove slowly down Main Street.
Everything looked . . . normal.
Except that nothing would ever, could ever, be normal again. Not for Toby. And maybe not for Sociable.
Toby looked down at the tarot layout and rubbed her forehead again. Damn. Damn. I’m imagining this. All this. I have to be.
Because the layout, though different in other ways, still showed her the three strangers coming here to battle evil. But this time, all around this battle with evil, their lives and fates entangled with a monster who had just begun to kill horribly in Sociable, was The Group.
—
TRINITY SAID, “IT’S like I was telling Deacon, Braden can be very insistent and always seems able to make his wishes known. In fact, it’s almost impossible not to know what he wants, even without an ability to read his mind.”
“What does he do if you don’t follow him?” Deacon asked.
Braden immediately left the door, went to the sheriff, and grasped the sleeve of her jacket in gleaming white teeth. He tugged, gently.
&
nbsp; “I should keep my mouth shut,” Deacon said.
Hollis picked up her unfinished coffee with a sigh and said, “Well, I’m really hoping it isn’t another victim, but my vote is we go see whatever it is he wants us to see. Especially since he clearly knew what he was doing when he guided Trinity before.”
Jesus, not another body. Trinity felt grim and hoped it didn’t show. “I’m assuming you guys brought along some equipment and supplies?” she asked them as she also rose to her feet—and her dog released her sleeve and returned to the door.
“The SUV is packed,” DeMarco confirmed. “And one of these days I’m going to ask Bishop how he always manages to have the things waiting for us at a moment’s notice.”
“He’s Yoda,” Hollis said.
Trinity looked at her, decided that despite the grave face it had been a stab at wry humor, and decided to ask later why a unit chief in the FBI would be compared to a wise and powerful but inscrutable movie alien.
“Okay,” she said briskly. “Then you two follow my Jeep; I’d rather not alert my crime scene unit unless and until I have to. This little parade could cause enough attention as it is. Deacon, you can ride with Braden and me, so we at least keep it down to two vehicles.”
“I am curious to know just how he guides you,” Deacon said.
“I have a hunch you’ll be impressed. I was.” Without another word, the sheriff led her guests back through the relatively small bullpen, where four deputies and several administrative staff members worked industriously.
“We’re finally in the process of digitizing old case files as well as historical records,” Trinity told the others as they emerged onto the sidewalk. “Once that’s done, my civilian administrative staff will consist of a tech or two to keep entering current data, my usual assistant, and two receptionists to cover the first two shifts; third shift is covered by a deputy. I have twenty full-time deputies and usually have half a dozen cruisers patrolling the county at any given time. There’s another half-dozen part-timers I can call on at need, most of them semiretired but experienced, a few very trustworthy younger hunters who can be counted on to obey instructions and not decide to mete out justice on their own terms. Usually I have more than enough manpower to do the job.”
“Still,” DeMarco said, “a decent-sized department for such a small town and county.”
“I have a decent budget. The city founders and subsequent leaders have been bright and dedicated, and keeping the peace and maintaining a good quality of life for our citizens has always been a priority.” She looked down as Braden gave an insistent tug on her sleeve and sighed. “It was such a nice, normal little town.”
Following her down the sidewalk toward their vehicles, Hollis said earnestly, “You’d be surprised how often we hear that. Such nice little towns. Such kind, normal people. Everything all nice and tidy. Until monsters come hunting. On top of being a tragedy it’s just a shame. I really hope Sociable isn’t much changed when it’s all over and done with.”
She didn’t add that in her experience that was, unfortunately, seldom the case. Evil acts always changed people and places, and never for the better.
“I’m just hoping against hope that this monster isn’t somebody I know.” Trinity opened the front door of her Jeep to admit Braden, adding to Deacon, “Mind riding in the back? He generally gives way like a gentleman to a passenger, but he needs to sit in the front seat to guide me.”
“I wondered if he’d lead the way on foot. Now I’m just more curious than ever,” Deacon told her, climbing willingly in the back.
“If he led the way on foot, the whole town would be talking about it,” Trinity responded somewhat grimly. “Whether it’s deliberate or my good fortune, I’m just glad he’s more subtle than that.”
“So far, anyway.”
“You had to say it, didn’t you?”
“Well, somebody did.” Deacon had been in enough grim situations to know that they were both using wry humor almost on automatic, their minds ranging ahead and already speculating about what they might find.
What neither one of them wanted to find.
Trinity backed her Jeep out of its parking place, then started it forward slowly.
Immediately, Braden leaned over and grasped the arm of her jacket, seemingly careful to get only material between his teeth. He tugged gently.
“Right turn?” Deacon guessed.
“Let’s see.” She took the next right, which was onto one of the side streets that seemed to climb straight up behind the town toward the top of the mountain.
Trinity kept the Jeep moving below the posted speed of twenty-five, but not so slow as to attract undue attention, and they passed one cross street that ran parallel to Main Street. Just before the next cross street, Braden leaned over again, this time nudging her arm with his nose.
“Left turn,” Deacon murmured.
“Sort of hard not to know what he wants,” Trinity agreed, turning left onto the next side street. “Like I said. He’s been like that about a lot of things, though this guiding thing is new.”
These streets were lined with assorted buildings, some homes, the occasional small business such as an insurance office, a doctor’s office, and a couple of crafty gift shops.
At the next stop sign, Braden tugged again for a right turn. Trinity obeyed, and again they climbed the slope upward. It appeared to be growing steeper.
Thinking about those slick roads she had earlier alluded to, Deacon said, “Jesus, if it’s snowy or icy, how does anyone keep from sliding straight down to Main, across it, and down into that stream on the other side of the road? Four-wheel drives even with tire chains would have trouble on streets this steep.”
“It’s a bit easier to zigzag using the cross streets,” she said. “Takes longer, but is at least a bit safer.”
“Not very much safer, I’d guess.”
“Most locals have the sense to stay put,” Trinity answered over her shoulder. “Or walk, if they have to get out, at least down to Main. Visitors are warned not to drive unless it’s an emergency. And we use sand and salt on the roads, especially these.”
“Still, I bet you’ve fished a few cars out of that stream.”
“Every time we get a winter storm,” she confirmed. “Average is four or five times a year. No fatalities so far, but some serious injuries and totaled cars.”
“I bet.” He watched the dog in the front passenger seat, noting his fixed attention straight ahead. “Are we going straight up? What’s at the end of this street? Does it go all the way to the top of the mountain?”
“You can’t get to the top of the mountain from any of these climbing streets,” she told him. “All of them either turn right or left, or just dead-end. Sociable backs up to about a thousand acres of forest between us and the top of the mountain. Walking, hiking, and riding trails crisscross the forest, with a few of them leading eventually to the summit. Great views.”
“I would imagine. No homes up there?”
“Part of a national forest, so no building.”
“Does this street dead-end?
“In a manner of speaking. It ends at an old church, one of our historical buildings no longer in regular use.” She paused, then added somewhat dryly, “Trinity Church.”
As she climbed out of their SUV, Hollis said, “Is it superstitious of me to say that if we find a crime scene or dump site at a church, it has to be a bad sign of worse to come?”
“You’re the profiler, not me,” DeMarco reminded her as they walked the few steps to join the sheriff and Deacon James.
And Braden.
Obviously hearing that, Trinity said to Hollis, “Everything I’ve learned about profiling, admittedly not much, is that it’s a process, a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Evidence, facts, information, experience, speculation, and educated guesswork. With a lot of pieces that don’t look like they fit. Until they do.”
“That describes it pretty well.” Hollis held on to her warm coffee cup wit
h one hand and put the other in her jacket pocket; it felt a good twenty degrees colder up here. And she wasn’t really tempted to turn back and look at the view down to the valley and beyond.
“It’ll be interesting to see how this one comes together,” Trinity said, but absently. “Well, Braden isn’t leading, but I’m not much inclined to stand around and wait him out.”
The street had dead-ended into a relatively small, graveled area about twenty-five yards from the southern side of the church, presumably used as a small parking lot. And from where they stood, old overgrown shrubbery blocked their view of the front of the building—though they could easily see the tall, very white steeple stretching into the sky, brightly lit by the afternoon sun.
Stained-glass windows were also visible along the side facing them, the only sign of ornamentation on the white clapboard building that had to be well over a hundred years old. It had a plain brick foundation, and the simple steps of a small rear entrance were only just visible from this angle.
There was no shrubbery close to the building, just the pale, almost colorless grass of winter, worn here and there by a path or just a seemingly random bare spot where no grass grew. It was clear the wilderness rising behind the building hadn’t been allowed to encroach, and yet there was an odd air of abandonment about the place.
“The church isn’t very large,” DeMarco said. “Looks like only two entrances?”
“Yeah, just two.”
“We split up, front and back?”
“Sounds good to me,” Trinity said. “On the other side of the church is a small graveyard, and then the old parsonage. The parsonage is private property but a historical building like the church, so maintained but not occupied. I have standing permission to enter both buildings.”
“Good,” Deacon said. “Especially since we don’t have probable cause to enter. I don’t see anything suspicious.”
Hollis set her coffee on the hood of Trinity’s Jeep, then adjusted her jacket so that her sidearm was visible. She flexed her fingers absently. “Did something bad happen in the church?” she asked Trinity.
