“Right. Not the Bessie.”
“Come on,” I said and started the hike up the drive. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“I got an idea. First, he’s got the place bugged because he had a feeling you’d be calling. Looks like he knows you a little better than you know him, sweetheart.”
“Screw you and yeah, it’ll be bugged. I’d say let’s get her outside, but she’s likely wired, too. Simms is hiding something from us, Ayden. He’s probably schooled this lady on exactly what to say to us, so...”
“Ah, hold it, hold your horses! Now I know why you needed me to come with you.”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I didn’t invite you to my place, the wine, and all that. You showed up.”
“You invited me, Cain. I read it.”
“Wishful thinking.”
“Nah uh, you little audial, you. Dost thou forget my specialty? No, I am sure you do not. I read the here and now, sister, and you requested my presence, which I mistook as an invite to play house for the night with you. In reality, you needed me just in case the very thing that just happened, happened, or even if it didn’t. You need me to read the mom psychically and in the present, noting whatever flashes through her mind, which could be past—not my specialty though. That would be Noah’s, as you know, and I do find it interesting that you would not ask Prince Charming along for this ride.”
I punched his shoulder and, yes, I punched it hard. “Okay smarty mcfarty, what’s the plan, if I’m so easy to read?”
“As I said. Read the mom. But, uh, don’t you think Simms has some kind of shield up regarding me, too? He knew that the two of us were out here.”
“Yeah, but the difference between us is the connection. He’s dialed into me because of our outside relationship. I don’t doubt he’s put something in place to keep you walled out, but I have faith that you will back door your way in.”
“Keep trying with you.”
“Connors.”
“Sorry. I’ll be good.”
We passed by security with our badges, plus it was more than obvious that Simms had told them we would be coming by.
We were greeted by Larry Hammonds. Larry was a big guy, bald, with dark eyes that made me think of a falcon for some reason. I didn’t like him. After meeting him in our offices five years ago, I’d heard a conversation between him and his wife, and the guy was verbally abusive to the point where I’d really love to kick his ass, but I couldn’t use my gift to invade the personal lives of my colleagues. Since then I’d worked hard to shield myself against hearing outside conversations between employees and their loved ones. Not that I hadn’t wanted to listen to Noah and his wife Jacqueline before, because I had my doubts that everything was as lovey dovey as Noah’s pretty wife made it seem, but ethically I couldn’t go there.
Larry escorted us into the family room with bay windows overlooking the Pacific below, but all one could see was immense darkness at that moment. Hope’s mother Stephanie was seated on the cream colored leather sofa. She turned to face us. A petite woman who looked drawn and scared. Her blue eyes wide and red rimmed from the tears I knew she had been crying. I sat down next to her. “Stephanie, hi, I’m Agent Kylie Cain and this is Agent Ayden Connors. We are here to get your daughter back.”
She nodded. “Yes. Agent Simms said that you would be by tonight.”
“Right.” I glanced at Ayden. He reached out and shook Stephanie’s hand, then sat down in one of the chairs that was opposite the sofa. A large glass coffee table separated the furniture. I wanted badly to hug this woman because the look in her eyes reminded me so much of the look my mother had when I was returned to her almost two decades ago. She had been without me for six months and in the end, we lost my dad. I was not going to allow six months to pass before I brought Stephanie’s little girl home. No way. I did wonder in that moment as well, where Hope’s father was. We would need to get to that.
“Can you tell us about Hope’s disappearance?”
“It’s all in the file. I’ve gone over this with Agent Simms, and also the other agent. Um...Kensington.”
“What?” I asked. “Noah Kensington?”
“Yes. I have. He’s um, he’s...”
“I’m right here.”
Ayden and I turned our heads to see Noah walking into the room. I heard myself mutter, “Holy hell.”
Noah smiled his charming and somewhat oh-so-devilish grin.
“Noah,” Ayden said. “Surprise, surprise.” He smiled.
“Goes both ways, I guess. You came to speak with Stephanie. Simms and I actually just finished going over her statement again with her. I think she’s probably pretty tired at this point and maybe a little hungry. I had Jaqueline fix you some dinner. It’s in the kitchen if you’d like.”
Stephanie stood and nodded. She mustered a weak smile toward me. “I’m sorry. I am very tired and as Agent Kensington said, I’ve gone over everything again. I believe there are more notes.”
“There are,” Noah replied. “And, I will be going over them with the two of you momentarily. I just want to get Stephanie settled in the kitchen.”
“Right. Good night. We will find her. I promise you. We will find your little girl.”
“Thank you.”
Noah led Stephanie from the room. When they were gone, Ayden looked at me looking as shocked as I felt. “Don’t know how I missed that.”
“Yeah. There’s the shield. Noah. I’m not sure if he knows it, or not, but he is Simms’ shield.”
“Yeah, well, he isn’t fool proof,” Ayden replied, lowering his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I got something from the mom,” he whispered. “She’s scared shitless of Simms and doesn’t trust him.”
“Okay.”
“I got something else, too, Ky, but we can’t go over it here. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I have a strong sense it is the key to what this little girl is all about.”
Chapter Eleven
I chewed my lower lip.
Ayden and I were on the balcony, waiting for Noah to return, both of us sipping something strong. I considered pressing Ayden on what he’d picked up, but decided against it. I would know soon enough.
The thing was, I didn’t need to be psychic to piece some of this together. That Ayden had gotten the kind of hit that clearly rattled, should be clue enough that something was amiss.
And if not amiss, then being kept from me.
I hate being in the dark...and keeping two psychics like me and Ayden in the dark would have taken some forethought. Only Simms could manipulate us like that...and he would have needed help.
That help, I suspected, came in the form of the man who was even now approaching us on the balcony.
It was a cool night in Malibu. Below, the distant lights of Santa Monica twinkled. Noah’s amber drink caught some of the ambient light as he joined us near the stone railing.
“You’re mad,” he said, noticeably keeping his distance. He crossed his arms and sipped his drink.
“Wouldn’t you be?” I asked. I turned away from the spectacular view, my drink forgotten on the railing. “You’re keeping something from me—from us, and I don’t like it.”
Noah, who had ranking seniority over me, said, “I love you, kiddo, but the PSI doesn’t give a damn what you do or don’t like. You have a job to do. We all do.”
I opened my mouth to speak, stunned by Noah’s scathing tone. I was about to let him know just what I thought of his tone, when Ayden elbowed me. He shook his head once and I got it.
Lord, such a dolt sometimes. Noah was putting on a show for whoever was listening. Noah, after all, was ambitious. I knew this. Or, I suspected, his wife was ambitious and put pressure on Noah to move up in the agency. To be all he could be. More power, more money.
I always suspected this went against my friend’s rebel nature. He was a helluva agent, but he tended to do things his own way, which often rubbed the upper brass the wrong way—and inf
uriated Simms to no end.
Anyway, that Noah was making a show of cooperating and, hell, reprimanding me, should have been an indicator that not all was as it seemed.
Still, the bastard had some serious explaining to do.
“Hey, where are you going?” said Noah, confusing the crap out of me until I realized the show was still on. He winked at me and motioned his head for me to follow him. “Come back here, Ky,” he said loudly. “Don’t be like that.”
I shook my head and Ayden rolled his eyes as we followed Noah to the far corner of the wide, wrap around balcony. Here the wind thundered up from the canyon below, blasting the west side of the home, effectively drowning out our voices from any listening devices.
“Sorry, Ky. Had to lay it on back there.”
“Figured as much,” I said. Ayden cleared his throat. Okay, fine. I hadn’t figured as much. I had been too busy being pissed to know that Noah had been putting on an act for Simms and company. I said, “Fine. So what the hell’s going on?”
“This isn’t the first time this kid has been kidnapped,” Noah said.
“What?” I blurted, a little too loudly.
I could see in the dim light casting down from the moonlight, Ayden closing his eyes tightly. He nodded, getting it. “Ah. It’s why her mother is so afraid of Simms. In fact, Stephanie isn’t really Hope’s mother.”
I looked back and forth between Noah and Ayden, trying to clue into what they both had. “Okay, master psychics, do tell, because so far I haven’t gotten a damn thing. And, who is Stephanie then?”
“Hope Mitchell has been trained just like you were—from the time you were a kid. She didn’t just come across this gift and share it with her mother. She’s been cultivated. Stephanie is a plant. She has raised the kid as her mother from the time she was little, so Hope believes she is her mom. The thing is, Hope and probably others were raised in an institution. My guess is, and it’s only a guess because all of this is coming to me off the psychic planes, is that there are more Hope’s out there. And, Simms is keeping it a dirty, dark secret. If he is running a program like what I am suggesting, he knows that children need a level of nurturing. Thus, there are surrogates. I am positive that Hope was a test tube baby. I have no doubt that the woman in there cares for the girl, but her real reason to play the role of mom is two-fold. One she is afraid not to do it. Two, she’s getting a substantial amount of money. If I had to bet on it, there is a clause in a contract with her that says she is to go away after Hope reaches a certain age and be done with being mommy.”
I felt sick to my stomach. I was starting to get it now. I didn’t even need to be psychic to put two and two together. “Simms has a program that he’s devised with these kids. The biological parents are donors? Psychic ones?”
Noah nodded again. “I’m not entirely clear on the parents, although it’s obvious that Stephanie herself has no psychic gifts to speak of. That’s why I think he brings in surrogates. For all I know, she has a tainted past and this is a way out.”
“Where are they?” I asked. “The other kids?”
This time Noah shook his head. “I don’t know that either. But I think you better start listening.”
Chapter Twelve
I was sitting on “the rock.”
Below me, glittering in the night like a radiant, many-faceted jewel, was Simms’ sprawling estate. The boys were waiting inside.
Waiting for me.
Well, they were just going to have to keep waiting. I was, after all, working. And “tuning in” long distance was always a challenge, even for someone as highly trained as myself. There was, after all, a lot of noise out there...so much so that many audials turn off the skill forever. And, like all extrasensory skills, if ignored or forgotten, it will go away.
Yes, I have thought of shutting it off, too. Until I remember the good it does. Or the good I hope it does.
So, I closed my eyes and took in a lot of air. I sat cross-legged. Not quite in a lotus position, as this was not a spiritual meditation. No, this was my way of clearing my thoughts and “tuning in” to that which I chose to hear. My job was always made easier if I held a personal item of my target. Without a personal item, I was forced to wade through much more clutter.
Now, as I gripped a pair of Hope’s earrings—one in each hand—I exhaled slowly through my mouth. As I did so, a soft hum filled my head. It always began with a hum. I took in more air, slowly, deeply. I felt the warm wind on my face, lifting my hair, ruffling my light sweater. The wind was suffused with traces of salt and maybe even brine, as we were high above the ocean below. Mostly, I smelled sage and juniper and dust. Somewhere, a coyote howled. Somewhere else, another coyote answered.
I ignored them both, and focused on the hum that was growing louder and louder. Now, as voices wafted up from the home below—voices I ignored—the hum turned into something more than a hum. It turned into soft breathing.
This always excited me. That I could hear from long range should have been second nature to me now, but it wasn’t. No, I never took my gifts for granted. Not like the others. Every day, I was thrilled by this skill, this rare gift...this blessing to hear across great distances. And not just hear...but to hear with pinpoint precision.
And, of course, there were some of us who didn’t call being an audial a blessing. Many like me called it a curse.
They were untrained, of course. They didn’t know how to turn it off. They let it consume them. We were, after all, the mother of all eavesdroppers.
Easy to abuse. Easy to get caught up in it. Easy to let it consume you.
More often, though, easy to let it drive you mad.
To sit quietly in bed, and literally be able to pick up snatches of conversation from around the globe was...off putting to say the least. Thank God, my father—a highly trained audial himself, and founder of the PSI division—had trained me how to rein it in at a young age.
I didn’t rein it in now. No, I embraced it fully—and utilized it completely.
Yes, it was definitely breathing I was hearing. Soft breathing. Contrary to what most people might believe, very little of one’s life was spent talking. Often I heard a TV in the background, the sounds of tapping on a keyboard—hell, often the sounds of sending and receiving texts. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make out the sounds of individual keystrokes, although I knew my superiors often wished I could.
I heard the sounds of faster breathing as people walked or exercised. Sometimes I heard grunts and pants and the dirty talk of sex. Often I heard the car radio playing...or just breathing.
Generally, I can distinguish between the rhythmic breathing of sleep, which was often punctuated by light snores. The breathing of sleep generally follow the rule of a two-count inhalation and a one-count exhalation. Daily life didn’t contain such consistency.
I listened now. My target would be a young girl. Eleven-years-old. Often, I needed to familiarize myself the breathing of my target. Once I knew their patterns, I could quickly determine if they were asleep, walking, or something else. Often I relied on background noise to determine what they were doing.
But there was no background noise. Nothing to speak of, literally. Just light breathing. At her age, her breathing would be faster than an adult’s. I slowed my own breathing further, tuning in, locking on, so to speak.
The girl was not asleep, that much was obvious. The sleep rhythm wasn’t there. Besides, she was whispering something every now and then. Something even I couldn’t pick up. Then I caught snatches of “God” and “please.”
She’s praying, I thought.
For some reason, that sent a cold shiver through me—a shiver that was not caused from the cool breeze blowing up from the crashing surf below. No, that a young girl would be sitting quietly in a room and praying, made me nearly break the connection to her and start pacing.
I was, of course, reminded of myself. Sitting in a locked room at a young age—and praying like hell that my father would come for me.
He
had come for me. He had, in fact, freed me...but it had come with a heavy price. The heaviest of all.
Hard as it was, I pushed images of my dying father out of my thoughts and focused on the girl. Small lungs, tiny, whispery voice. So young, I thought. Too young to be dealing with this shit.
And that’s when I heard it. The child heard it, too. Hope gasped as footsteps approached. Her prayers quickened. And as they did so, I made them out clearly:
“Please help me, God. Please help me. Help me.”
Jesus, I thought.
Next came the sound of a door being unlocked. Creaking open. Hope gasped and I heard her move back in whatever she was sitting. I heard blankets shifting.
“Breakfast time, Hope.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself.”
There was a long pause before the door closed again. As it did so, Hope burst into tears.
And as I listened to her weep from halfway across the world—somewhere far enough where it was time for breakfast—I realized with a sickening dread that I recognized the woman’s voice.
“Sweet Jesus,” I said, and snapped my eyes open.
Chapter Thirteen
The woman named Orlenda was standing over her again. Hope pretended to be asleep, but quickly learned she wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Hope, it would be best if you simply opened your eyes and talked with me. I am not here to harm you. I only want some information that I believe you have. Once you give it to me, you can be returned to your mother.”
Hope opened her eyes and said, “I don’t believe you.” She had already tuned into this woman’s conversation with someone named Echidna. They had spoken on the phone, and Hope had learned that her mom was with Grant Simms. Mr. Simms was in charge of the School. He was okay but Hope didn’t trust him, and she didn’t like it that her mother was with him. Her mother’s energy seemed different and very distant to her.
She’d been trying to “hear” her mother and see if she could hear her as well, but there was a shield in place, and it was powerful.
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