Danger Signals

by Kathleen Creighton

  '"So," said Wade, "let's hear it."

  She looked away, smiling. "You're asking me to be a profiler?"

  He hitched one shoulder. "Why not? I have an idea a lot of profilers-the best ones, anyway-probably have some of what you've got. Empathy-the ability to get inside a person's skin. Seems to me it's just a question of to what degree." When she didn't reply but went on smiling, he looked over at her and said. "What?"

  "I guess…I'm surprised. I didn't think you were a believer."

  She could see the side of his mouth tilted in a grin. "You mean, I can surprise you? I thought you could read me like a book."

  She gave a soft huff of laughter. "I'm sure you find that idea distressing, to say the least. May I remind you, I don't read thoughts. Only emotions. And the truth is. you know, you can block me-and you do. Most people can-and do. Not just from me, from everyone. Sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously, but for sure if they know someone like me is tuning in. The reason I can pick up so much from crime scenes is because, for one thing, it's after the fact. The emotions were broadcast at a time when no one was around, so there wasn't any need to block them. And. of course, the emotions are so powerful, so…" Awful. Horrible. Ugly. Violent.

  "Yeah," said Wade, as if he'd heard her. He frowned.

  "What I don't get. I guess, is how you can pick up these emotions 'after the fact,' as you put it. That's where I part company with believing."

  "I'm not sure myself, actually. I don't think there's ever been a scientific study done. I have my own theory, if you care to hear it. As you might imagine, it's a question I get asked a lot."

  "Sure, I want to hear it."

  She paused, took a preparing breath. "Okay, think about the way you pick up scents…odors. What you're picking up is actually molecules of a substance that are suspended in the air. You take them in along with the air you breathe, your scent receptors pass them along to your brain, which identifies them for you."

  "Lovely thought." Wade said dryly, "considering the things I get to smell on a regular basis."

  She gave him a sympathetic smile before continuing. "Okay, then there are sound waves. You can't see them, but they travel through the air. your ears pick them up. and all the little thingies inside there do their job and the sounds get transmitted to your brain, which once again identifies them, based on the database of all your stored-up experiences. Now, it's pretty much recognized that thoughts are a form of energy-like electricity. Or maybe it is a form of electricity-I'm not sure. But that energy can travel, and it can remain suspended in the air, and no one knows the limits of how far or for how long. And it can be picked up by someone who's sensitive enough to recognize it."

  "People like you."

  "Yes," Tierney said, turning to look at him, "but sometimes the sensitivity comes from having a very close relationship. You've heard stories about mothers who somehow know when their child is hurt, or in danger, no matter how far away they are."

  '"Yeah, or you think the phone's going to ring, and then it does." Wade snorted. '"What about all the times you think the phone's going to ring and it doesn't? Just the law of averages says you're bound to hit it once in a while."

  "True." She let it go at that. She knew from long experience the pointlessness of this discussion.

  After a moment Wade said. "So, what about that profile? We are dealing with a male, right?"

  "Absolutely."

  '"Someone who was abused, probably by a woman-not his mother-wearing a uniform. Right so far?"

  "Yes…" She frowned, reluctant to sort through those impressions again, but knowing she must. Bracing herself firmly, she closed her eyes and opened her memory. "He's young, I think-no more than thirty-five. A loner. Parents…dead, I think. Anyway, haven't been around for a long time."

  "He's probably been in the system, then." Wade said, nodding. "We'll check that out. What else?"

  "He's shy, timid, even. A mouse, afraid of people. Feels threatened by them, especially women. Feels powerless. Probably works at a menial job-whatever it is, he hates it. He fantasizes about-" She couldn't go on. Slammed the door shut with a shudder of revulsion.

  "Yeah…it's okay." He sounded distracted. Thoughtful.

  "What are you thinking?"

  He jerked a look at her, then smiled. "Oh, I think you know."

  "I don't need to have a gift to know you must be thinking about your own childhood. Losing your parents at an early age. Going into "the system:"

  His smile vanished completely, then returned, though a little crooked now. "Yeah, but I wasn't abused. I was one of the lucky ones, I guess. My brother and I both."

  "You have a brother?" she asked, looking at him with new interest. As a child she'd yearned for brothers and sisters. "How lucky you are."

  "Yeah." But his voice held a soft irony, and she felt wisps of emotion leaking through his barriers. An aura of sadness.

  She wouldn't normally have pressed, but for some reason she couldn't bear to leave him with the melancholy she'd unwittingly stirred in him. "You seem sad," she said gently. "Were the two of you…not close?"

  "Oh, we're close," he said dryly. "At least we were growing up. Stayed that way until pretty recently, too, even though as adults we both went in different directions. We're completely different, when you get right down to it. Guess it's a miracle we got along as well as we did."

  "He was younger than you."

  He nodded, seemingly not surprised she hadn't made it a question. "Matt always was kind of a free spirit. I guess you could say-not one for the discipline of a nine-to-five job, anyway. He barely made it through college, and afterward went off to California to explore the great outdoors. Wound up staying there. He was doing okay, working as a wilderness guide-rock climbing, white-water river rafting, that sort of thing."

  "What happened?"

  He let out a breath and she winced involuntarily as the sadness became sharp, almost too painful to bear. He looked at her and muttered. "Oh-sorry," and instantly she felt the pain being dampened down, covered with wrappings, brought once again under control.

  "He had an accident," he said in his flat, policeman's voice. "Rock climbing. Broke his back. He's paralyzed from the waist down."

  "Oh, how awful," Tierney murmured, knowing how inadequate it was, pressing her fingers against the spot at the base of her throat that ached with the pressure of his sadness.

  "Yeah." After a long pause he went on. "So anyway, he kind of…dropped out. Last I heard he was down in L.A.- works at a sports center, something like that. He does wheelchair sports, I know that, but he doesn't keep in very close touch nowadays."

  "What about your parents? Do you keep in touch with them? Does he?"

  "About Matt, I couldn't tell you. I try to keep in touch. We talk on the phone every couple of weeks. They live in Florida. My mom says she'd rather have hurricanes than earthquakes and volcanoes-says at least with hurricanes you get some warning." He made an exasperated sound, but one with affection in it.

  Silence fell. They were coming into Tierney's neighborhood. In a few more minutes she'd be home. Home alone with only her painting and the sad remnants of Jeannette. the only family she had left, to keep the terrible emotion-memories at bay. Frustration and anger swept over her- her own emotions for a change. Memories of the peace she'd known when Wade had held her only made her anguish worse.

  Why can't I have that always? Someone of my own, someone for me, someone to care for me and nurture me and protect me from the bad stuff?

  They stopped at a traffic light. She looked at Wade's stalwart profile, resenting him a little bit then, for being stalwart, yes, but also for being oblivious to her emotions. Knowing she was being unfair. Irrational. But still…

  "Wade," she said, "do you think about them-your birth parents? Do you remember them at all?"

  He looked over at her, then back up at the light. Seconds passed, and she thought he wouldn't answer her. And then he did-with a lie.

  "Nope. Not a thing."r />
  But they tumbled into her mind like broken toys from an overstuffed closet, bits and pieces of emotions and memories, impressions that could only have come from the man sitting placidly beside her, waiting for the light to change. Shards of violence, strangling cobwebs of terror.

  He hadn't blocked them. Were they too powerful to contain, or had he simply forgotten? Did that mean he was beginning, even unconsciously, to trust her a little? For a few moments the pleasure that thought stirred in her eclipsed the fact that he'd lied.

  The light changed and the car moved forward. Tierney let that sweet, soft breeze of unexpected happiness warm her until the next signal stopped them once more. Then she said, without looking at him. "Don't you think that's odd?"

  Wade glanced at her. "What, you mean that I don't remember my birth parents?"

  "You said you were six or seven when you lost them. Most people have memories, bits and pieces, at least, from much earlier than that."

  He hitched one shoulder. "Well, I don't. If that's odd, I guess I am."

  But again the shrapnel of violence and fear screamed into her head, making her wince in spite of her effort not to.

  He threw her another look, this one sharp and accompanied by a snort and a sardonic little smile. "I'm guessing you're picking up something. So? Come on, give. I can't wait to hear this."

  She shook her head, looked up at the light and said flatly. "It's green."

  A polite beep from someone's horn seconded the reminder, and the car jerked forward. They drove for two blocks in total silence before Tierney spoke again, in the same toneless voice. "You missed it."

  "What?"

  "That was my place back there. Where I live. You missed it."

  Swearing, Wade flipped on the blinker and made a screeching right at the next corner. Once again silence reigned inside the car while he maneuvered around the block and into a parking space two doors from Jeannette's Gallery. He turned off the motor but continued to sit facing front, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. Tierney made no move to get out of the car. and neither did he.

  Then he thought. What the hell am I doing?

  Acting like a damn jerk, was what he was doing. And it wasn't him, the sarcasm, the mockery. He didn't like the idea of someone reading him-who would? But it wasn't as if she did it on purpose. And if she had picked up something from his thoughts-emotions, or whatever-so what? Far as he knew, he hadn't been thinking or feeling anything out of line. What was he afraid of?

  He let out a breath, a wordless surrender. "Look, that was uncalled for. I'm sorry."

  "I know."

  He threw her a look in time to catch the remains of a smile, then gave a snort of laughter and ran a hand over his hair. "This is going to take some getting used to. And what happened to my being able to block you?"

  She looked back at him with somber eyes. "I don't know. Maybe you let your guard down. Or maybe-"

  "What?" he prompted when her gaze slipped away. He caught her arm and she brought her eyes reluctantly back to his. "Come on, what the hell did you see?"

  "Feel"

  "Whatever."

  "It was bits and pieces-like a jigsaw puzzle all mixed up, so a lot of it didn't make sense. But I felt fear. A small child's fear-terror, actually. It was powerful."

  She paused, and he gave her a shake. Not even aware that he did. "Go on."

  "I felt…violence. Trauma. Really awful…" Her voice broke and her eyes darkened, as if the violence she spoke of was reflected in them. Relentless, he was about to prompt her again when she caught a breath and went on. "But there's something else, too. Something else I-you- felt. Or remembered. Something changed. You felt comforted. The fear was still there, but it was less now, because someone, or something, came between you and the violence. You felt…sheltered. Protected." She gazed at him, now with uncertainty in her eyes. "Maybe…could that have been your parents? Does this mean anything to you?"

  He shook his head. Became aware of the way he was gripping her arm and released her. Faced front again and groped blindly for the ignition key. He was all but vibrating with the strain of keeping himself and his thoughts and feelings blocked.

  "Not a thing," he said as the engine roared to life.

  Tierney nodded without comment, though he knew she didn't believe him. After several tension-filled moments, she opened her door. "Well. Anyway. Thanks for the ride home."

  "No problem. I'll, uh…I'll call you if anything develops. And by the way-good job today." She paused to give him a long look, and he felt compelled to add, "Really, You helped a lot."

  She nodded, murmured. "Thanks," and closed the door.

  He pulled out of the parking space and drove off with as much decorum as he could muster, considering how jangled he was, rather like a normally law-abiding citizen who'd just been ticketed for a traffic violation. He was sweating, and his jaws felt cramped.

  He wondered if he'd been successful at keeping Tee Doyle out of his head.

  He sure as hell hoped so. Hoped she didn't know she'd just described the nightmare he'd been having off and on since he was seven years old.

  Chapter 4

  That night he had the dream again, for the first time in…he didn't know how long. A couple of years. After Matt's accident, maybe?

  It started the way it always did, him dreaming of waking up in the darkness, of being afraid, terrified. Heart racing and pounding, he was sweating and shaking, wanting to cry but knowing he was too big to cry. He didn't want to be a baby, did he? He didn't cry, he didn't. But his chest and throat hurt as if he did.

  Then the noise. Terrible noises-things crashing, breaking, thumps and bangs, voices yelling…screaming. A man's voice yelling. A woman's voice screaming.

  My mother's voice.

  Yes. This time he knew it was his mother's voice-the screaming…crying…begging.

  There were other voices, too, small frightened voices- not mine!-whimpering, "Mommy…"

  And finally…finally the other voice, the one he'd been waiting for, praying for, soft as a breath blowing warm past his ear. Shh… It's okay…it's gonna be okay. I won't let him hurt you. Nobody's gonna hurt you. You're safe now. It's okay…

  He felt safe, then, and warm, and when the loudest noises came, he crouched down in the warm darkness and waited for the crashing and banging and screaming and yelling to stop and the lights to turn on, so bright they hurt his eyes. So bright he always woke up.

  Once, when he was a kid, he'd told Matt about the dream. When he got to the part about the soft voice, Matt had nodded emphatically, the way those little bobblehead dogs do that people put in their cars. "I remember that," he'd said. "It was the angel."

  Wade, being older and past believing in angels, but kindhearted enough not to want to hurt his little brother's feelings, merely asked. "How do you know?"

  "I just do." Matt replied. "He always came when I was scared."

  "He? A man angel? Aren't angels supposed to be ladies?"

  "Uh-uh-not a man. a boy angel. Like us, only bigger. Boys can be angels, because if a boy dies, what else is he gonna be?"

  That was a bit too much for Wade; it gave him a funny feeling in his stomach. So he'd said, "Boys are too ornery to be angels!" and pounced on Matt and tickled him until he almost wet his pants and had to dash off to the bathroom.

  After that, when the bright lights came he'd tried to see the angel's face, but he always woke up before he could.

  On this night, though, instead of going back to sleep. Wade lay thinking about the dream and Matt's "angel." Nothing had happened in his life so far to change his mind about the existence of angels, but… But what? He had dreams about a presence that comforted him in times of danger. His little brother had an imaginary "angel" who did the same thing for him. He'd always chalked it up to bad dreams and Matt's vivid imagination, but evidently the presence was a powerful enough part of his own psyche that Tierney had picked up on it, and what did that mean? He had no memories of the years before he'd been adopted
, which had happened when he was seven and Matt was five. Except…

  Tonight he'd dreamed he heard his mother's voice. Was that just a dream, or was it a memory?

  If it was a memory, what about the rest of the dream? Was that a memory, too?

  If the whole dream was a memory, what was it about, all the screaming and the noise? As a cop he knew the sounds of violence when he heard them. Could something really bad have happened in his childhood that he'd blocked all memory of, except for this one recurring nightmare?

  If so, who in the he-uh, heck-is Matt's angel?

  The logical conclusion would be Mom or Dad, he supposed. But again, his experience in law enforcement told him that if Mom was the one doing the screaming, it was most likely Dad doing the shouting. And banging.

  Wide awake and sweaty, heart pounding. Wade threw back the wreckage of his covers and got out of bed. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told him he could have taken another hour, but he knew better than to try to sleep. Instead he walked to the window, yawning and scratching, and peered out at the familiar shapes of his neighbors' houses, just becoming visible in the thinning darkness.

  In the above-garage apartment he rented from a nice retired couple named Hofmeyer. the bedroom window overlooked the street while the kitchen and sitting room opened onto a deck at the back which enjoyed the nicer and more private view of the neighbors' trees, shrubs and flower gardens. He was about to turn and make his way to the bathroom to begin the process of making himself ready for polite company, when a slight movement caught his eye. He froze, eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the source of the movement, which hadn't come again. Nevertheless, in the rapidly approaching daylight he found it-someone sitting in a car parked directly across the street.

  No reason to think anything about that. Could have been someone waiting for his neighbor, running late for their car pool. Could have been-aw, hell, he knew it wasn't any of the things it could have been. Maybe it was what Tierney had said about someone watching him. and the fact that he was beginning to have some respect for that lady's "impressions." That, and the feeling in his gut. The cop sense that had kept him out of serious trouble a couple of times in his career told him whoever it was sitting out there in his dark car in the breaking dawn was there because of him.