by Rachel Caine
“I need to talk to Miss Prichard,” Katie said. “Get her here, now, if she isn’t on campus.”
Christine nodded. “It’ll be done.” She went after Rebecca.
Katie focused back on the girls. “What kind of trouble was Miss Prichard in?” she asked.
“It wasn’t her,” Melissa said earnestly. “Honest, it wasn’t. She was the victim! These guys, they were going to put some kind of crap on the Internet about her son. She just wanted to pay them off to get them to stop. Her son, he’s had some bad times. She was afraid it would really hurt him.”
Miss Prichard, whoever she was, had understood these girls too well. Every one of them wanted to save the world, even this little bit of it…and they’d neglect their own safety to do it. Katie continued her questions, but really, neither of the girls had more information; just what Prichard had told them. They were too young not to fall for it—and far too idealistic. Like most predators, Prichard had tailored her attack to their one vulnerability: their desire to help.
Katie finally closed the interview. “Either of you have anything more you’d like to tell me?” she asked. “Melissa? Gabriella?”
They each shook their heads. Her internal emotional tuning fork told her that they were now pitch-perfect, no secrets held back. She jotted down notes in her investigation book while she waited for the two other women to return.
It took longer than she expected, and in fact Katie had gotten up to check when Rebecca appeared in the doorway, Christine close behind. Her normally composed expression had gone very tense.
“Trouble,” she said. “Turns out Sheila Prichard was out sick today, and I’m getting no answer at her home phone. Here’s Prichard’s personnel file.”
“See if anybody else is missing,” Katie said immediately. “Students, faculty, staff. Do a roll call. We can’t afford to miss anything.”
Christine and Rebecca moved to comply, and Katie pushed her own growing sense of frustration and fear aside to smile at the girls. The folder felt cool and heavy in her hand, and she set it down on the desk next to her notebook. “Thank you,” she said sincerely to the two students. “You’ve really helped me tonight, and more importantly, you helped Lena and Teal. I know it wasn’t easy. Please, go ahead and get some rest. If you think of anything else, or hear of anything else, let me know. Here’s my card. It has my cell phone number on it.” She handed them the FBI contact cards, and watched as the two young women left the room.
A staff member. It was what she’d been afraid of all along, that someone in a position of trust would have betrayed the girls.
Hell hath no fury.
For Sheila Prichard’s sake, Katie hoped it was just a bad case of the flu, and that there was a reasonable explanation of how she’d come to set a chain of events in motion that had led to the abduction of two very special girls.
Katie read over Prichard’s personnel file, noting down addresses, contacts, previous employers, and then went out toward Rebecca’s office to find a landline to use, since her cell phone battery wasn’t going to last through the hard use she was bound to put it through before this was done.
As she did, she passed one of the common rooms, where a television was playing on low volume in the corner. She glanced toward it, warned by some sense that she couldn’t possibly explain, and saw that Shannon Connor was interviewing someone.
Television was kind to Shannon, although she was lovely no matter what setting; some people had a special aptitude for it, Katie had found. She wasn’t one of them. She came across grim and embarrassed when interviewed. She always tried to put another, more telegenic FBI spokesperson out when possible.
The shot cut to Shannon’s interviewee, and Katie’s mouth dropped open. She took three quick steps into the room, grabbed the remote control from the table and turned the sound up. Around her, studying girls looked up in annoyance, noted her age and—presumably—authority, and went back to what they were doing.
The guy from the airport. From the crime scene.
He was talking to Shannon Connor, on the air.
Her first impression was that he was even more telegenic than Shannon; the camera loved him, loved his big dark eyes and curling hair and quirky smile. He leaned forward in his chair, demonstrating a command of body language that Katie thought was impressive, and said, “I didn’t want to come here, Shannon, I had to come. It was a matter of duty, not choice.”
“Duty,” Shannon repeated. “Let’s back up a moment, Mr. Blackman. You’re not employed as a psychic, are you?”
“No,” he said, with that cute, I’m-not-one-of-the-odd-people smile that somehow conveyed fondness for them at the same time. “I work in television. Behind the camera.”
“In development.”
“Consulting.”
“And you’re here in Phoenix because…” Shannon looked authentically skeptical.
“Because I had a psychic vision,” Blackman said, with just the right matter-of-fact tone. He shrugged. “Didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it, never had one like this before and believe me, hope I never have one like it again.”
“You predicted the girls’ abduction?”
“No. I saw it on the news and something just connected. It was like I was seeing through one of the girls’ eyes.” He said it in the same tone, but Katie saw something shift in him, behind his controlled expression.
Teal. Teal can touch others with similar abilities.
Shannon must have seen it, too. “That sounds frightening.”
“I’m not in any danger. But those girls are.”
“So tell me what you saw.”
Katie wasn’t normally a believer in psychics, and the idea that this Blackman had suddenly turned up with visions at an opportune moment—well, she’d seen it before. Usually people with an attention-seeking disorder, or a con man looking to defraud the families. Which was he? Her money was on con man. But…still…Teal could have reached out to him.
She was about to mute the sound again when she heard him say, “—pink and purple streaks in her hair.” He was describing Lena. Katie hesitated because those were specifics, and con men and attention-seekers alike avoided anything specific. “They’re in a van, one either without windows in the cargo area or with the windows blacked out, and they’re in the desert on Highway 347, or they were half an hour ago. There are at least three abductors in the van with the girls.”
That was far too specific for a con. Katie hesitated, weighing the remote in her hand. Watching Blackman, who radiated nothing but a tense sincerity.
“I don’t think it’s sexual,” he said. “It doesn’t feel like that. It’s more like a kidnapping—money, politics, I don’t know. But it seems professional, the way these people are acting.”
The camera cut back to Shannon, who looked appropriately skeptical. “Mr. Blackman.” It was a reproof, perfectly delivered. “You flew out here from L.A. on the strength of a vision, to tell us that two girls we already knew were in danger are in danger? Don’t you think that’s a little self-serving, at best? What proof can you offer that you’re not a fake or a con artist?”
Bravo, Katie thought. An on-point thrust.
Blackman parried without apparent effort. “I didn’t come here to get attention, and I didn’t come to make money,” he said. “I came to help the police. If the police won’t talk to me, then I’ll catch the red-eye back home tomorrow. But I hope they will. I believe I can help, and that’s the important thing. Getting these girls back alive and unharmed.”
Somehow, Katie felt as if Blackman were talking directly to her. As if he knew she’d hear. It even seemed that his eyes were on hers through the television screen, although of course that was impossible.
Shannon maintained her skepticism as she turned back toward the camera. “That’s the latest from the scene of the kidnapping of two young girls here in the Phoenix area, Charles. The police are shutting down the crime scene, and we’ll have to wait for an official statement from the Glendale police,
which should be coming in the next hour. Back to you.”
They were still at the crime scene.
Katie muted the television and continued on to Rebecca’s office, where she dialed Kayla Ryan’s home phone number. Kayla answered on the second ring.
“I need another favor,” Katie said.
“Well, I can’t say I don’t owe you a few, especially since you’re here doing a big one for us.”
“I need to have a uniformed officer pick up a guy at the crime scene and detain him until I get there. The guy’s name is Blackman. He’s with Shannon Connor right now.” She gave his physical description, trying to keep any subjective judgments out of it.
“How long will you be?” Kayla asked. “Just so I can tell the cops who pick him up.”
“Believe me,” Katie answered, “I’ll hurry.”
Chapter 6
P laying keep-away with bikini girls on Venice Beach was nothing compared to playing intellectual keep-away with Shannon Connor. She wasn’t just some stringer for ABS, Stefan realized almost immediately; she was ambitious, she was sharp and she was good. Good enough to engage him on a level he hadn’t felt in a long time. Part of it was her aura—she gave off a complicated, heady energy that was two parts cleverness and one part bitterness.
If he hadn’t been empathic, and hadn’t been able to tell what she wanted him to say, she’d have manipulated him halfway back to Los Angeles without him being any the wiser. He was glad to be done with the interview, glad to have, he thought, come off as considerably more sane than she wanted him to. Reporters liked the crazy. Especially television reporters.
Once the hot lights were off, Shannon turned off some of her intensity, too. She was beautiful, he thought, but not his type—too demanding, too focused on herself and not others. He sensed she had more in her, better things, but she’d spent a long time covering that up.
“So, Stefan,” she said, and slipped her arm in his as she stepped down from the wide truck that served as her mobile studio. “Are you really just going to hang around here all night, waiting for someone from the police to take an interest? Because I can promise you, if they do, it’ll be the wrong kind of interest. They’re not trusting people.”
“Do you have any other suggestions?” Reflexive flirting. He didn’t mean it. He realized thankfully that neither did she.
“Well, I’d volunteer to show you around the town, but I’m a little busy with the kidnapping story.” Shannon gave him a smile to show him that was a pity. “Really, you should go home. Nobody’s going to take you seriously, not unless you come up with a viable suspect’s name.”
Two uniformed police officers ducked under the crime-scene tape. That wasn’t unusual; the cops were packing up and dismantling equipment, getting ready to roll up the scene. It was a bit like watching a set being struck in Hollywood, Stefan thought.
What was unusual about these two cops was that they headed straight for the ABS remote van, walking with a purpose.
“Heads up,” Shannon said. “Looks like you got what you wanted. Nice meeting you, Stefan.”
She winked at him and walked away. He stayed where he was, hands at his sides, as the cops approached. Something about cops always made him want to stick his hands in his pockets, but he’d long ago realized that it made them paranoid.
“Hi,” he said as the two of them stopped just about two feet away. He extended his hand. They were both big men with identically hard eyes. Neither took his hand.
“Mr. Blackman?”
He nodded.
“Would you come with us, sir?” The spokesman for the two had a deep Barry White voice. “We’ve been asked to hold you for a while until the FBI can talk to you.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir. Not under arrest. The agent would just like to speak with you. She’ll be here as soon as possible.”
Unexpectedly, the other officer smiled. “We’ve got coffee. It’s almost fresh.”
“Well,” Stefan said, “why didn’t you say so? Lead on.”
He wasn’t thinking of the coffee, though it did sound tempting. He was thinking that they’d said FBI, and they’d said she.
That gave him an unexpected feeling of pleasure.
The search of the Academy and its grounds turned up nothing. Sheila Prichard wasn’t answering either her home or cell phones. Katie handed that part of the investigation over to the Glendale PD, and Kayla, and headed back out to the crime scene.
The only sign that it had been a crime scene was a few lingering news vans packing up for the night after their live shots. The cops had all gone, except for one police cruiser sitting parked at the curb, just about where Teal and Lena had been dragged into a van.
The police cruiser was empty. She looked around, and saw a small diner on the corner with a warm glow coming from its plate glass window. And clearly silhouetted inside, two uniformed police officers and Blackman.
She walked across the street and down the block, slowing as she approached. She wanted to observe her subject without being watched in turn. He wouldn’t be able to see far into the dark, as bright as it was inside the diner. Whatever he and the two cops were talking about, it was clear they’d bonded; they were all smiling, animated. Blackman gestured like an Italian when he was engaged.
The diner’s door chimed when she walked in, and the counter man looked up and nodded at her, unsmiling. She ordered a cup of coffee and went back to join the three in the booth.
“Officers,” she said and nodded to them. They’d both gone back to the sober, blank masks she was used to seeing with street cops. “FBI Special Agent Katie Rush. Thank you for your courtesy.”
“Ma’am.” They slid out of the booth, one at a time. “He’s all yours. Night, Stefan.”
“Night, guys,” he said, as casually as if the cops who’d detained him were old poker buddies. Strange. More than strange, that they’d been treating him with the same bonhomie. It wasn’t natural, not for police.
Stefan nodded for her to take a seat. He was still smiling, hands curled around his coffee cup on the laminate tabletop. Nice hands, she couldn’t help but notice—not overly large, but graceful fingers. Funny how attractive men’s hands could be.
Katie sat down and waited until the counter man delivered her own drink before she said, “Stefan Blackman.”
“Hi again,” he said and held out his hand. She shook it. “I’m not stalking you. Just wanted to make that clear.”
She blinked. “That’s comforting.”
“I thought, given the circumstances, that I should get that out of the way,” he said. “After all, it’s a weird string of coincidences. Airport, crime scene, now this. Weird, right?”
“Weird,” she confirmed. “Unless you planned it that way.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
She didn’t answer. Sometimes silence was more effective than words in leading a subject to drop important clues. Not this time, though. Stefan seemed perfectly content to sip coffee and smile and study her with those big, dark, compelling eyes.
“Tell me about this vision you had,” she said.
“That’s good.” Stefan sat back without breaking eye contact. “You managed to say that without sounding like you think it’s total crap, even though you probably think it’s total crap. And it’s visions, not vision. I seem to be tuned in on this girl’s frequency.”
“Has that happened before?”
He finally looked away, out the window. She saw muscles tense in his jawline. “Believe me, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. As psychics go, I’m pretty low level. I can usually pick up blurry impressions and emotions, but this is the full-on sensory experience.” He paused for long enough that she thought he might be finished, but then he went on. “I don’t like it. I want it to be over. And for it to be over, you need to find these girls. So it’s really selfish, you see.”
Interesting. She couldn’t quite imagine a con man presenting it that way—con men were all
about adapting to the needs of the listener—and an attention-seeker wouldn’t be looking for a quick end to anything.
“Tell me about your vision,” she repeated. “The first one. How it happened, where, what you saw.”
He repeated it, closing his eyes to bring it back. It seemed to disturb him; his face tightened, and so did his hands around his coffee cup. He deliberately relaxed when he was done, breathed deeply and took a long swallow from his cup as he told her all about it. She heard nothing exceptional, which was odd—generally, liars liked to throw in colorful, nonspecific details. His account was very tight, and very consistent with witness statements, including Jazz Ryan’s.
Katie jotted a few things down in her notebook and said without looking up, “Tell me about the second vision.”
“It was more intense. It was also worse,” he said. His tenor voice, which had been velvet-soft, grew rougher. “The girls were trying to communicate with each other. I think they know sign language. But the abductors saw them, and—”
He stopped. Just…stopped. Stopped talking, stopped breathing. Katie looked up, startled, and saw that he’d stopped being there behind his eyes. Some kind of petit mal seizure, she thought. Epilepsy. His hands were slightly trembling, growing tighter around the cup. Tighter. The porcelain rattled against the tabletop with a dull chatter. She reached over and put her hand on his wrist, and she could feel the convulsive energy flowing through his muscles.
He didn’t respond to her touch.
“Mr. Blackman?” Nothing. She slid out of her side of the booth and leaned over him. “Stefan?”
A drop of sweat glided down the side of his face and splashed on his blue jeans, and suddenly, he gulped in a huge lungful of air, spasmed, and sent his coffee cup flying in a wobbling circle toward the other side of the table as his hands slipped free. Katie reached out and caught it, lightning-fast, and set it back upright, ignoring the spilled coffee.
“You okay?” she asked and crouched down to look into his face. He looked dazed, but there again. Shaken. “What happened?”
