Torn (Second Sight)

by Hunter, Hazel

  “They’re handmade?” she nearly gasped, staring at them.

  “I haven’t handled them either,” Mac said leaning into her. “I opened the package with latex gloves when it arrived from Fedex.”

  “Oh my god!” she exclaimed and picked them up.

  Not a single image came. Not a single human hand had ever touched them. Quickly, she pulled them on. The insides were lined with silk and they fit perfectly. She stretched her fingers out in front of her.

  No one had ever given her gloves! In fact, now that she thought of it, very few people had ever tried to give her anything once they’d discovered her psychic ability. Mac had done everything right.

  “They’re perfect,” she gushed.

  “And they’re supposed to get softer as–”

  Isabelle grabbed Mac’s tie, pulled him close and quieted his mouth with hers. He seemed stunned for a moment but as her lips pressed into his and her tongue slid along them, she felt his arm tighten around her waist. Softly but repeatedly, she kissed him. She hadn’t realized how smooth his lips were and she paused to savor the velvety give of them. Without hurry, she explored the sweetly curved upper lip and then the plump lower one, grasping each in turn lightly between hers. Mac barely moved, seemingly content, as she explored his mouth, the tips of their tongues lightly touching, her mouth slowly but rhythmically stroking his. She fed from the warmth there, her lips clinging to his, and for a moment she felt his blood pulsing. But before her kiss betrayed the heat that had begun to spread between her thighs, she slowly and reluctantly drew back. With one last, little nibble, she made herself let him go.

  A few moments of silence passed as though neither of them wanted to break the spell.

  “Well,” Mac said quietly, as he started to grin. “Somehow I see more presents in your future.”

  “Thank you for the gloves,” she said with a little giggle.

  Mac’s phone rang, stopping what would inevitably have been another kiss. He took it from his pocket and Isabelle couldn’t help but be disappointed.

  “It’s Sharon,” he said standing, as he answered. “Mac.”

  Isabelle gazed down at the gloves again. Unfortunately, they didn’t match today’s dress. Maybe she could change?

  “What?” Mac said. “When?” His face was suddenly clouded with anger. Then, his eyebrows went up. “The Priest?” Mac glanced at Isabelle and she stood up, taking off the gloves. “We’ll be right there.”

  Isabelle quickly tugged on the linen gloves and carefully laid the leather ones back into their tissue-lined box.

  “Has he called again?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “Yes,” Mac said. “But not the house. He called a local news station.”

  • • • • •

  The Caras house was chaos. The few uniformed police officers at the front door were overwhelmed. Mac pushed through the crowd of reporters, shoving when needed, and tugged Isabelle behind him. Sharon and Sergeant Dixon, who’d arrived within seconds of them, followed her.

  “FBI,” Mac yelled over the cacophony as they reached the door. “Let us through.”

  One of the officers opened the door behind his back without turning and held his hand out to the throng.

  “Stay back!” he yelled.

  In moments they were inside and, as the door closed, the decibels dropped. Ben apparently hadn’t arrived yet and both Angela’s parents were pacing frantically. When Dr. Caras saw him, he literally ran over and stood two inches from Mac’s chest.

  “What in the hell is this?” the man screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “Where in the hell–”

  “Dr. Caras,” Mac yelled, his voice booming as he talked right over the man. “The Priest called a television station last night and we’re working to bring the situation under control.” Dr. Caras blinked, his mouth still open. Whether he was surprised at being shouted down or at the news of what had happened, Isabelle didn’t know but it wasn’t anything compared to what happened next. Mac placed his hands on the man’s upper arms. “I need you over here,” Mac said, easily shifting him sideways, “out of camera view.”

  Mac released him and immediately turned back to Isabelle.

  “Close the drapes,” he ordered. “Sharon, take over comm and you…” he said, pointing to the young agent who’d manned the phone line during the night.

  “Collins,” the agent said, getting up and tossing the headphones into a chair.

  The room grew suddenly darker as Isabelle pulled the curtains closed.

  “Collins,” Mac said. “You and Sergeant Dixon move that crowd back. I want them away from this house and down to the end of the block. Use crime scene tape to rope across them or real rope for all I care. But get them away from his house. Then use the squad cars and our rental–Mac tossed the keys to Dixon–and your SUV to block the street. Start calling tow trucks if necessary to get those news vans down to the next block. And don’t be afraid to issue tickets to anyone who doesn’t comply.”

  Collins eyes went wide but Dixon spun on his heel and was out the door in seconds, as Collins followed and the sound of the crowd ramped up. But just before the door could close, Ben pushed through.

  “God dammit!” he said, nearly falling through the door before it slammed closed.

  Isabelle turned on a light.

  “I caught the end of the news this morning,” Ben said. “But it hardly looked like that.” He jerked his thumb at the door. “Any idea who leaked this?”

  “The Priest,” Mac said.

  Ben looked as though he’d been struck.

  “Is there any news of Angela?” asked Dr. Caras.

  “Where is our girl?” demanded Mrs. Caras.

  “Just hold on,” Mac said. “Let me start from the beginning.”

  He quickly recounted what he’d gleaned from the television coverage. The Priest had called a reporter named Camden Gould at KTLA Channel 5 after the end of the eleven o’clock news last night. He claimed to have abducted Angela and also took credit for Esme. Mac saw Ben’s back stiffen.

  “But the bottom line is that this is good news,” Mac finished. “Despite the circus outside, the Priest has revealed something very important about himself.”

  They all hung on Mac’s next words.

  “He wants fame,” Mac said, a little smile beginning to grow. “Do you see what that means?” But the blank faces around him said they didn’t. “On the one hand, the Priest needs to kidnap victims without being caught. On the other, he needs notoriety. He wants credit for what he’s done. One ambition necessarily cancels the other out. He can’t have both and eventually he’s going to make the mistake that will allow us to find him.”

  “Eventually,” echoed Dr. Caras. “How does that help Angela?”

  All eyes were on Mac.

  “We issue a press embargo,” Mac said. “Deny him what he’s after–no television coverage that centers around him. Instead, make him do more desperate things to get his fame. Draw him more into the open. Force him to call the reporter again. And when he does, we’ll have the reporter ask him to supply details that weren’t in the press, prove that he’s actually the Priest. Give him every opportunity to slip up and reveal too much, to–”

  “I’m going to offer a reward,” Dr. Caras declared.

  Mac stared at him.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Ben cautioned. “Mac is right. Starve him out. Make him come to us.”

  “Well if Mac is so right,” Caras yelled. “Where is my daughter?”

  • • • • •

  Prentiss propped up the magnifying mirror on the folding table so he could still see the TV. Every channel was broadcasting it but he tuned to Channel 5, where he’d originally broken the story. Camden Gould had always been his favorite reporter. The man had a certain presence about him. At the moment, though, there was a field reporter on the screen at Angela’s house.

  “Reporting from Hancock Park, this is Gail Barriga outside the home of Angela Caras. Per a–”
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  Gail quickly turned around and, in the distance, the front door of the Spanish-style home opened.

  Prentiss dabbed some spirit gum on the inside of the prosthetic and also on the end of his nose. Though the makeup took more time, it just seemed as though a doctor ought to have something more…substantial to his face. The bulbous nose plus the goatee and mustache really seemed to provide that.

  “That’s Angela’s father, Dr. Thomas Caras,” Gail said. “He has a statement for the press.”

  Prentiss carefully seated the silicone piece on his nose, pressed down, and held it for a few seconds. Dr. Caras approached the collection of microphones being held out to him.

  “Good morning,” Caras said. He cleared his throat. “My daughter,” he said, holding up a large photo, “has been missing since Tuesday and a man known as the Priest has called Channel 5 and claimed responsibility.”

  “The Priest?” Prentiss yelled. “The Priest?” He guffawed, slapped his knee, and promptly knocked over the spirit gum. “Shit.”

  As he righted the bottle and grabbed a couple tissues, he couldn’t stop looking at the television.

  “…in the kidnapping and torture of Esme Olivos last month.” Dr. Caras choked up, swallowed, and then cleared his throat again. The man had no stage presence whatsoever. “So I’m offering a $100,000 reward for any information that might lead to the location of the man known as the Priest or my daughter Angela Caras.” Dr. Caras held up a sketch that looked passably like the character Prentiss had last portrayed–though less handsome. He squinted at it. “Is the hotline number on?” Dr. Caras asked someone off-screen. Someone said something that Prentiss couldn’t make out and then the 888 number appeared next to the Channel 5 logo. Prentiss returned his attention to the spilled makeup glue which was already becoming tacky. “$100,000 for information leading to their whereabouts,” Caras pleaded. “Anything. If you know anything, please call that number.” Someone off-screen said something to him. “I’m not done,” he replied hotly.

  Though Dr. Caras kept talking, it suddenly occurred to Prentiss what had just happened. His character, his face, had just been on television. On television! It was another milestone for his career. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, grinning.

  The Priest, he thought, smirking. What will they call me when they find out I’m a surgeon?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For some reason Isabelle couldn’t put her finger on, a sense of dread filled her. Maybe it was the strange entertainment feel of the television station or maybe it was Mac’s grim determination but, suddenly, finding Angela seemed farther away than ever.

  “What’s this?” asked Camden Gould as Mac pushed the sheet of paper across the large, glass table.

  They sat in a small, conference room adjoining the executive producer’s office. Several large, framed prints featuring news vans or a smiling group of reporters decorated the walls. Though at first several people had been waiting for them, Mac had insisted that the meeting be limited to the executive producer of the show and Camden. Directors and news anchors had left in a huff, some of them eyeing her and the gloves. Though Isabelle had obviously been unwelcome at the house, Mac had not forgotten that the Priest had asked for her to be present. But now, with his call and blatant desire for fame, she wasn’t sure she really had a role to play.

  “It’s a script,” replied Mac.

  “I don’t need a script,” Camden said, sneering. “I’ve been doing this for forty years.”

  Isabelle had recognized him immediately. With a deep tan that looked too dark, particularly under the purely white hair, Camden’s smile was as bright as the California sun–though he wasn’t smiling now.

  “You may have been broadcasting for forty years,” said Mac. “But this isn’t broadcasting. It’s not even interviewing.”

  Camden’s face pinched into a sour look as he flicked his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Then what is it?” asked executive producer, Rob Stallworth, sitting next to Camden.

  Isabelle had decided that everyone–either in front of the camera or behind it–looked like an actor. For all she knew, they might have been. Stallworth was of medium build, his dark hair in a crew cut, his teeth as blindingly white as Camden’s and his chin dimpled. Although Camden was dressed for a broadcast, with his tie loosened and shirt undone one button, Stallworth was casual in jeans and a pink polo shirt, leaning back in the chair, ankle crossed over his knee.

  “It might be the only opportunity we have of capturing a psychotic, sexually-motivated, serial killer,” Mac said, fixing him with a stare. “And saving a young woman who is probably being tortured as we sit here.”

  A stunned silence settled on the room.

  Good, thought Isabelle. Let them know what we know. Let them feel what we feel.

  Stallworth uncrossed his legs and sat up a little straighter as Mac turned back to Camden. He’d taken the sheet and was studying it.

  “You want him to describe details of previous murders?” Camden asked, looking down the list of short paragraphs. “Why? To prove he did it?”

  “No,” Mac said. “That’s what he’ll think. But I’m already certain he’s responsible for at least four deaths based on the nature of the torture.” Camden looked up at him, his mouth hung open a little, though he quickly closed it. “What we’re looking for is information we don’t have. Anything that might lead to his identity.”

  Camden scanned the script again and Stallworth leaned toward him so that he could read it as well.

  “Nothing about Angela Caras?” asked Stallworth.

  “Not unless he brings her up,” Mac said. “But the goal is always to focus it back on him. You’re giving him an opportunity to have something he desires: fame. Let him tell us about himself. Let him talk.”

  • • • • •

  The view from the bench at Angel’s Knoll was marred by smog today. Somehow, when they’d filmed 500 Days of Summer here, they’d managed to roll back the haze. Or maybe it hadn’t really been summer. Or maybe they’d just done it digitally.

  Prentiss leaned back against the wood slats of the bench and stretched his legs in front of him as he listened to the phone ringing. He wore the light, blue scrubs under the white lab coat today, makeup securely in place.

  “Get me Camden Gould,” he said, bossy and impatient, when someone answered. Doctors were always bossy and impatient.

  “This is Camden,” the news anchor said.

  What a great voice the guy had.

  “It’s me,” Prentiss said.

  There was a brief pause on the other end.

  “How should I address you? Father?”

  Prentiss’ laugh burst forth before he could stop it.

  “No,” he said, stifling himself. “No.” He cleared his throat. “You can call me Doctor.”

  “All right, Doctor,” Camden said, not missing a beat. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve called with an update on the patient,” Prentiss said, squinting through the glasses at the blocky beige buildings in front of him.

  “I see,” Camden said. “And that would be Angela Caras?”

  “Of course,” Prentiss snapped, glaring down the rolling hill of grass. “Who else?”

  “Maybe one of your past victims,” Camden replied.

  Victims? That’s completely the wrong word.

  “I think you mean patients,” Prentiss said through clenched teeth.

  “Right,” Camden said. “Patients.” There was a pause. Prentiss took the opportunity to glance at the time on his phone but he could still hear Camden. “You’ve had other patients besides Angela.”

  But they hadn’t been patients, thought Prentiss, not really. It wasn’t until he’d impersonated a priest that the roles had really come together, really gelled into outstanding performances. Even so, who had ever heard of a surgeon who hadn’t had previous patients?

  “Of course,” Prentiss said quickly. “I’m eminently qualified to perform this surgery. You migh
t say I’m the best.”

  “And where will you be performing your work, Doctor?”

  How completely obvious.

  “In the operating room, of course,” Prentiss replied, pleased to be parrying words so easily.

  “How many of these surgeries have you performed?”

  “Six,” Prentiss said, immediately. “This will be my seventh. I’ve honed it. Any blade can be used.” That had to be impressive. That had to get on the news. “I’m going to–”

  “Why the psychic?” Camden asked.

  Prentiss blinked.

  “The what?”

  “Why involve the psychic, Isabelle de Grey?” Camden asked, sounding rushed. “And why call me? Out of all the reporters in L.A.? Why me?”

  Prentiss pursed his lips and snapped the phone closed.

  Without a backward glance, he turned and strode up the hill to a bum sleeping on one of the benches. Prentiss tossed the cell phone to the grass underneath.

  • • • • •

  Mac fumed, hardly hearing what Sergeant Dixon was saying. He glared down at the sergeant’s desk, in the middle of the bullpen seating in the West L.A. Police Station.

  Another opportunity lost. Did these people want Angela to die?

  Again the cell phone triangulation had been successful and, again, they’d found the phone without the Priest, this time at Angel’s Knoll. The homeless man hadn’t seen a thing and the tiny park had been empty except for him.

  “Mac?” Isabelle said quietly as her gloved hand touched his arm.

  They sat side by side, Sergeant Dixon across from them, trying to link another two unknown victims to the Priest–who was apparently now a doctor–and a surgeon. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Mac.

  “He doesn’t have multiple personality disorder,” Mac declared, looking from Isabelle to the sergeant and back.