Torn (Second Sight)

by Hunter, Hazel

  I have to read Mac…

  Isabelle sat down on the edge of the bed. She’d used gloves to change the sheets only an hour ago. They were the sheets that Mac and she had used–objects so full of him that touching them would be a partial reading.

  To intentionally use her gift of psychometry with him would mean knowing him, really knowing him. It was the kind of truth that not a single one of her relationships had survived. But not to read Mac meant wearing the gloves whenever they were together–forever. She was torn. To move their relationship to that next step of intimacy was something she desperately wanted but at the same time it risked the one thing she couldn’t stand–losing him.

  Back and forth she’d argued with herself.

  Do it, said the desperate side.

  “I can’t,” Isabelle muttered for the fearful side.

  Abruptly, she stood up.

  Stop it. This is what happens when you have too much time on your hands.

  The silent cell phone on the nightstand was testimony to that very fact. The strategy to rattle the Priest had involved her saying publicly that she was a fake. Only the most dedicated clients had stuck with her. But as she went to the drawer and picked up a pair of gloves, it wasn’t customers that she hoped would call. It was Mac–and that call couldn’t come soon enough.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Though they’d set up the phone taps and a trace as standard procedure, Mac hadn’t been convinced that the Priest would call. There had only been one time that he had–when Isabelle had been involved. As far as case file data went, he’d never tried to contact the families of the other four victims. Once the Priest’s modus operandi had been analyzed from Esme’s case, it hadn’t taken long to recognize similar cases.

  So when Mac had heard the phone ring while searching Angela’s room, he’d assumed it was another call from family or friends. But the pounding of feet on the stairs and in the hallway, let Mac know this call was different. Sergeant Dixon appeared breathless in the doorway.

  “It’s him,” he said, standing aside as Mac barreled out of the room and then down to the living room.

  Dr. Caras was sitting in one of the high-back chairs grouped around the brass table and Sharon crouched next to him, wearing headphones and pointing at a sheet of paper on the table. This was the standard script that Mac had asked Sharon to draft in order to help whoever was on the phone keep the Priest on long enough to triangulate his cell phone.

  As he strode to the computer table at the opposite end of the room, Ben handed him a set of headphones.

  “You listen to me,” Dr. Caras was saying. “I want to speak with my daughter.”

  Mac shot a look at Sharon who grimaced and repeatedly tapped the script with her index finger. Making demands was not part of the dialogue.

  “Get the psychic,” the Priest said, calmly and firmly. “Get Isabelle de Grey.”

  “What?” Dr. Caras said. “Who?”

  Sharon scribbled furiously on the script as Mac froze.

  Isabelle?

  “Look, you twisted bastard,” Dr. Caras said as he waved Sharon off. “You let me talk to my daughter.”

  Mac clenched his jaw and Sharon threw her hands in the air as she stood. Dr. Caras would not be answering the phone in the future. But as he listened for the Priest’s response, Mac’s mind raced.

  Why Isabelle? He had vilified her before. She’d been party to the only time the Priest had been thwarted. Was it still a battle between good and evil, between him and her?

  “The psychic,” the Priest repeated. “In one hour.”

  Then he hung up.

  Mac glanced down at the agent on the computer, typing furiously, hitting the return key, and then waiting. A cursor blinked, almost in slow motion, and finally a line of text appeared. Two towers were hit, both of them near the coast. That fit. Four of the five killings had occurred west of the 405 freeway. But it wasn’t enough to narrow the call area down to something searchable. And without knowing the make and model of the gray, Japanese compact that Esme and Isabelle had seen, a visual search of traffic cameras in the area would be pointless, turning up hundreds if not thousands of hits.

  Mac took off the headset as Sharon tore hers off and grabbed the script from the table.

  “That was not only unhelpful,” she said loudly. “It was also potentially damaging. The script is there for a reason.”

  “Who in the hell is this psychic?” Dr. Caras yelled at her as he stood.

  Though not tall, he still towered over the diminutive Asian agent. Mac immediately headed toward the two of them. Though he’d responded automatically to protect her, he needn’t have.

  “Back up, Dr. Caras,” Sharon said through clenched teeth, her nostrils flaring, as she widened her stance and moved her elbows away from her body. “Right now.”

  Caras blinked at her a couple of times and then did just that.

  “Isabelle de Grey,” Ben said to Dr. Caras, disgust dripping from every word, “was my wife’s psychic.”

  “The Priest spoke with her last time,” Mac said, taking the phone from his pocket, about to dial Isabelle.

  “This is ridiculous,” Caras said, regaining some steam. “I won’t permit it.”

  “Look,” Ben said. “I don’t like it any better than you. The woman is a complete charlatan.” Mac’s finger paused over the call button as he watched Ben’s face. His nose wrinkled as though he smelled something foul and there was a tiny curl to his upper lip. “But,” Ben went on. “We don’t really have a choice.”

  Mac hadn’t realized how vehemently Ben had opposed Isabelle.

  “She was instrumental in cracking the case,” Mac said.

  “She unnerved the Priest,” Ben said, shaking his head. “Forced him into mistakes. Nothing more.”

  Though Mac’s report had been neutral on the issue of whether Isabelle’s psychic ability had actually helped, clearly Ben had his own interpretation. A strange déjà vu took over as Mac remembered the first time he’d heard of Isabelle. His reaction had been much the same as Ben’s. Everything she’d done could be chalked up to a good guess or understanding people. But now he knew different.

  “Do you think she can do that this time?” Caras asked, more interested now. “Force him into a mistake?”

  “We’re going to find out,” Ben answered. “Right, Mac?”

  • • • • •

  It wasn’t exactly the reunion that Isabelle had been envisioning. Mac’s phone call had come as a surprise so early in the day. But what had proved even more startling was the fact that their relationship was a secret. Even now, as Sergeant Dixon pulled into the driveway, it was more what Mac had said that bothered her than the Priest.

  ‘Unethical’ he’d said. ‘Against the rules.’

  Really?

  She followed Sergeant Dixon up the tiled path to the ornate entry. At least the sergeant had been happy too see her, had even given her a little hug. As they approached the double doors, Isabelle felt her stomach flutter in anticipation, despite Mac’s phone call. But the scene in the living room was like a jolt of reality. Uniformed police officers, FBI agents, Sharon with a headset on at the computer, and Ben. It was all so frighteningly familiar.

  And there was Mac, sitting on an ottoman, in the far corner of the room. He looked up from the paperwork in his hand, just as she changed direction to head toward him. A little over six feet tall, with dark and short-cropped hair, Mac’s powerful frame was mostly hidden beneath his dark suit. But the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and square jaw were easy to see.

  God, he was every bit as good looking as she’d remembered. She knew exactly what lay beneath the starched white shirt and thin, black tie. And as she approached him, his deeply blue-green eyes covered her from head to toe. He stood up from the ottoman and, for an instant, Isabelle pictured herself running to him, throwing herself into his arms, and feeling them close around her. But as Mac extended his hand for a handshake, the image vanished, as did her grin.

&nb
sp; “Miss de Grey,” Mac said, his tone serious and his smile forced.

  “Special Agent MacMillan,” she said quietly, grasping his hand. Even through the linen glove, it was warm, his squeeze gentle. For a moment, she was lost in his eyes and then the handshake was over.

  “This is Dr. Caras,” Mac said, turning away from her. “His daughter Angela was abducted from County USC Medical Center yesterday.”

  Though Isabelle turned to say hello to Dr. Caras, Ben stepped in-between them and she came to an abrupt halt.

  “You’re only here because the Priest wants you here,” he said. “Got that?”

  “Got it,” Isabelle responded reflexively.

  “We don’t want any of that psychic crap. Understand?”

  “Ben?” Mac said, before she could answer. His hand was under her elbow, tugging her gently backward. “I’m sure Miss de Grey remembers the drill. But let’s go over the script, just in case.” Mac steered her toward Sharon. “We haven’t got a lot of time.”

  At least Sharon smiled at her, if only briefly as she took off the headset and stood.

  “Isabelle,” Sharon said. “It’s good to see you.” She glanced at Mac’s hand, still on Isabelle’s elbow, and he let it go. She pushed a single white page of paper toward her on the folding table. Several short paragraphs of typewritten text covered it. “I’m sure you remember that the goal is to keep him on the phone.” Sharon paused and was looking at someone behind Isabelle. “And using the script,” she said, louder than necessary, “will help us do that.”

  Isabelle frowned a little, not understanding what was going on. She’d been about to turn and see who Sharon was glaring at when she felt Mac close to her.

  “Dr. Caras didn’t follow the script,” he whispered in her ear. Isabelle nearly gasped. His warm breath moved softly against her and, as if he’d touched her, Isabelle felt her heart begin to hammer. “He won’t be answering the phone any more,” Mac breathed.

  “The first thing we want to accomplish,” Sharon said, her voice returning to normal, “is getting a triangulation on his cell phone. Like last time, he’s not using a land line.”

  Isabelle felt Mac back away and she let go a long breath.

  “Are you all right?” Sharon asked.

  Isabelle felt her face flush.

  “Just a little warm,” Isabelle said, her voice a bit high.

  “It’s okay to be nervous,” Sharon said, smiling. “But you’ll do fine. At least it’s not your first time. Right?”

  “Right,” Isabelle said, nodding. “Right.”

  Isabelle didn’t know where Mac had gone but she didn’t trust herself to turn around and look.

  “Our second goal,” Sharon said, “is to ascertain whether Angela is all right. Though we don’t have an audio analysis back from DC yet, I think we all recognized the Priest’s voice and it’s almost certainly not a crank call. We’re working on the assumption that he has her.”

  An image of Esme, lying on the floor, completely dehydrated and bleeding, flashed in front of Isabelle. Her knee ached as she remembered the reading she’d done of the poor girl in order to get a description of the Priest out to law enforcement agencies as quickly as possible.

  “Right,” Isabelle said, finally concentrating.

  “Here’s the phone,” Sharon said, picking up the small, sleek handset on the table and setting it back down. “And,” she looked in back of Isabelle. “Here’s a chair.”

  Isabelle looked behind her to see Mac bringing what looked like a dining chair from an adjacent room. She could also see that Ben was sitting with an older couple, grouped around a small brass table. Those had to be Angela’s parents. They were listening intently to Ben and, though they both looked upset, it wasn’t the kind of emotional outbursts she’d seen when Esme had vanished.

  Mac set the chair down and held it for her. As she sat, he scooted it in a little and then quickly moved to the opposite side of the table where an agent she didn’t recognize was sitting. The young man was wearing headphones and, as Mac donned his, Ben and Angela’s parents appeared and Ben got them set with headphones as well.

  Isabelle felt a bead of sweat trickle down the small of her back. By the time the phone rang, she’d even begun to hyperventilate.

  Sharon held out two fingers, then one, and then pointed to the ringing handset.

  • • • • •

  Mac could see that Isabelle was upset. He’d seen it the moment she’d arrived. But now, as she reached to the phone, her hand shook. Everything in him wanted to comfort her, tell her it was going to be all right, just take her in his arms and hold her tight.

  He’d almost done just that when he’d whispered in her ear. She’d been so close that he’d smelled the fresh, floral scent of her skin. He’d had to consciously force himself to back away from her.

  She wore a dress he’d never seen, a deep red that perfectly complimented her olive skin and lustrous, long, dark hair. Her petite frame curved in all the right places within its confines, her shapely legs showcased from mid-thigh down. And as she’d strode toward him, he’d watched the gentle sway of her hips and then stared at the hint of cleavage in the scooping neckline.

  Isabelle picked up the handset and turned it on.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice clear in his headset.

  “Isabelle,” came the Priest’s voice, smooth and confident. “I have a message for you.”

  A shrill, piercing, and agonized wail filled their ears. Despite the phone call with Esme, no one had seen this coming.

  Dammit!

  “Oh my god,” he heard Isabelle gasp as everyone around the table jumped at once.

  The shriek was air-shattering and seemed as though it might go on forever when suddenly it stopped.

  Mac glanced at Isabelle who gripped the edge of the table and had her eyes closed. Sharon touched her on the shoulder, making her start, but she immediately saw Sharon pointing at the script.

  “May I please speak to Angela?” Isabelle said, her voice trembling.

  They all waited, frozen in place, dreading another one of those screams. But the only thing that greeted them was silence and something that sounded like the rustle of wind on a microphone.

  “Hello?” Isabelle said.

  • • • • •

  Prentiss smiled at the disposable phone as he turned off his own phone and tucked it into his jacket pocket. His recording of Angela’s scream had been crisp and clean, almost as luscious as the real thing. Leaving the burner phone on, he carefully laid it in the shallow depression he’d scraped in the sand with the heel of his shoe. As he stood up, he paused to watch the ferris wheel, up on the Santa Monica pier, only a couple hundred yards away.

  Are those people insane? Riding in those big, swinging buckets?

  He had to shake off a shudder at the thought.

  Quickly, he turned and headed back to the parking lot. No doubt they’d be here soon. Suddenly, he felt the goatee slip and quickly pressed it back into place.

  “Crap,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t used enough spirit gum.

  As he passed the two-story lifeguard headquarters, he allowed himself a long look. This was where Baywatch had been shot. The sand he was trudging through right now had once been a film set. He grinned despite the irritating goatee. Los Angeles was a magical place.

  • • • • •

  “Hello?” Isabelle tried for the third time.

  Though Angela’s mother was quietly crying, neither she nor the others had removed their headsets. For some reason that Isabelle didn’t understand, the phone call seemed to be going on and yet they’d heard only muted, unknown sounds after the initial rustling.

  Mac and Ben were leaning over the young agent between them, staring at his computer screen. Isabelle waited for Sharon to signal her again but suddenly the agent in the middle nodded vigorously and all three of them ripped off their headsets.

  “We’ve got a triangulation,” Mac said.

  CHAPTE
R FIVE

  Though Mac already knew this was pointless, they had to go through the motions. The Hostage Rescue Team went first, piling out of their SUVs, hitting the ground running to an area on the beach behind the lifeguard headquarters. Assault rifles ready and dressed in military style uniforms with helmets, it looked like the marines had arrived to secure the beach.

  No serial killer was going to torture their victim on a public beach in broad daylight. Even so, as they homed in on the location, their feet pounding through the sand, Mac’s adrenalin surged. Other agents and uniformed police spread out to the left and right, keeping anyone in the vicinity well back.

  “Fifty feet,” the head of the HRT yelled.

  And as Mac counted off the paces in his mind, the head of the HRT signaled for a stop. In moments Mac had joined him as he and the rest of the agents gazed down at a cell phone lying open and face up in a shallow hole.

  “Son of a bitch,” someone muttered.

  Mac thumbed the switch on his radio.

  “Forensics,” he said. “You’re up.”

  The scream had to have been a recording. And who knew if it was even Angela? The Priest could well have a collection of screams that he’d recorded. As the HRT stood down and was replaced by agents in clean room suits, Mac forced himself to calm down and process what he was seeing.

  He already knew there’d be no fingerprints on the phone. The Priest didn’t make those kinds of mistakes–not in four murders and one attempted murder.

  “Question everyone in the area,” he said to the growing group of agents around him. “Both out here and inside the lifeguard headquarters. Anyone who might possibly have seen a priest.”

  As the group disbanded, Mac stood with hands on hips and looked down at the phone as it was bagged and then up at the pier.