Mystical Love

by Rachel James

  He scanned the tank top and cut-off jeans, and then the Death card peeping from beneath her bare torso. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a pair of gloves and donned them. Seconds later, he was studying the skeletal image on horseback with a frown. Meta Corps would be pissed about another sudden death of one of its empathic clients. If and when he reported the teen’s death, he would be screwed. The teen had been his to keep safe.

  He smacked the face of the card with his fingers. Could he walk away and let somebody else find the body? He could, but ... His gaze landed on the delicately carved, heart-shaped face. No, the teen had parents who loved her—no matter her addictions. Backing out of the doorway of the four-story brownstone, Logan reached for his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  • • •

  Idly slapping the encased Tarot card in his hand, Logan listened to the police chatter emanating from the two-way radio atop the interrogation table. The investigation at the brownstone was winding down at last, and in less than twenty minutes, his boss, Dresden Charles, would be seeking a written statement from him.

  The two-way radio continued its crackle and then fell silent. Logan sighed loudly. His Meta Corps instincts had taken an unexpected holiday today.

  Every day, his inner voice chided.

  No need to remind me, he told the voice.

  The radio took up its crackle again, dispatching the med techs to a new crime scene. Hearing the line go dead, Logan dropped the baggie onto the table and fished in his pocket for a cigarette. He wished he could kick his nicotine habit permanently. He had managed to cut down his intake after the shooting last summer, but to his disgust, he hadn’t quite managed to kick the habit flat out.

  Raised voices filtered through the plate-glass window, and Logan saw that the first of the evidence teams had arrived back at the station. Hearing the radio in front of him squawk loudly, Logan reminded himself to watch his mouth during the interview. Dresden abhorred his sarcasm.

  The figure in question appeared outside the door, sending a brief glance Logan’s way and then concentrating on the file a young med tech was offering him. Watching Dresden sign off on it, Logan’s frown deepened. Dresden was pissed; he could see it through the glass.

  A folder suddenly slapped down in front of him.

  “Two dead empaths in six months—and both of them female.”

  Logan gave a twisted smile. “The bastard is bold; I’ll give him that.”

  “I want him stopped.”

  “So do I. He’s fixated on my clients.”

  Dresden flipped the folder on the desk open. “Any thoughts? Leads?”

  “No leads, but plenty of thoughts,” Logan replied. He leaned over and placed the cards encased in plastic in a straight line. He tapped each of the different Tarot cards. “I did a little digging after the first murder and found there have been sixteen similar deaths of female empaths in the last three years. Eight here in the East, four in the Midwest, and four in New Mexico.”

  “Sixteen!” Dresden crowed. “That’s a hell of a coincidence. Any common thread?”

  “One. The Sanctuary.”

  Dresden’s head popped up. “The spiritual retreat?”

  “Afraid so,” Logan said. “From what I’ve managed to discover, it appears each of the empaths visited the retreat before their deaths.”

  Dresden dropped into a chair across from Logan. “You realize that Sonny Blake, our prize empath, lives there.”

  Logan nodded. “Puts Meta Corps in the crosshairs, I should think.”

  Dresden shuffled the baggies back into the folder and then spun the folder towards Logan.

  “Only one way to tell if we’re right. You need to go there and scout it out. I’ll e-mail a copy of the Tarot cards to Sonny and ask her to use her skills to verify your findings. By the time you get there, she should have some answers for you—what dates the women stayed there, their agenda while there, etc. She’s a whiz when it comes to solving Meta Corps cases.”

  Annoyed, Logan studied the folder. “Why the hell would we ask her to look into the deaths when she might be involved?”

  “She might be the next empath to die.”

  Logan pushed the folder away. “Assign someone else to verify my findings with her. I’m knee-deep in cases and can’t go.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Dresden advised. “I’m your boss. I know your caseload. You have time to put this one to bed. This case is hinky, to say the least, and it needs our best agent to handle it. And at the moment, our best is you.”

  “I’m tired, burned out,” Logan argued. “Send someone else. Besides, when the press gets wind of this latest victim, they’ll fry my ass in negative headlines like before. It’s best I keep a low profile.”

  “And the best way to do that is to not be in the city. You’ll take this case and get the hell out of Dodge pronto. That’s an order.”

  Surprised by the command, Logan squirmed in his chair. Dresden was copping an attitude with him, and it wasn’t like him. Had the man finally decided to write him off as a screw-up?

  “What’s your problem, Dresden?” Logan asked. “I’m doing the agency a favor by wanting to keep a low profile. One bloodbath of negative headlines is certainly enough, don’t you think?”

  Dresden shot from the table. “Do you think anyone’s going to believe you suddenly don’t give a shit about solving a serial killing? You’re a goddammed legend in this place, Logan.” He began pacing the floor. “You may have become a royal screw-up the last six months, but I am not going to let you shy away from another case with a female empath because it’s uncomfortable for you. What you’re going to do is get on a plane and solve these cases with Sonny Blake’s help.” He rejoined Logan at the table, and Logan felt the first stirring of anger at his tone. “Now, I’ll overnight the original Tarot cards on the company jet and give Sonny a heads-up you’re coming, but not the precise date or time. Sometimes, surprise is a great ally.”

  Annoyed, Logan sprang to his feet. “Why are you railroading me into taking this case? Can’t you see empaths are nothing more than damn charlatans getting rich off of other people’s dreams?”

  “Don’t condemn all empaths because one skidded off the rails and shot you.”

  “She put me in the hospital for months, Dresden.”

  “Be grateful. She made you take the best vacation of your life, which is something I could never make you do.”

  “That isn’t funny. I damn near died.”

  “Well, that’s not Sonny Blake’s fault. Besides, we need her. Her ability to touch an object and obtain facts that no ordinary agent can deduce on their own is something that Meta Corps has no intention of discarding any time soon. Her reputation, not to mention the reputation of The Sanctuary, is beyond reproach.”

  Logan sniffed his disgust. “I’ve a good mind to go to the director and ask him to reassign me to a different Meta Corps division.”

  A similar growl mocked his. “Fine. But if you do, I’ll see to it that your Meta Corps career comes to a screeching halt. I’ll yank your license and make sure you never work in this city—or any other city—ever again. And if you think I’m bluffing, just try me.”

  Logan crushed out his cigarette, wishing the stub was Dresden’s jaw; he would have loved to sucker-punch the bastard. But what would it get him? He’d still be sent to New Mexico. He returned his attention to the folder and swirled it absently. Perhaps he should meet with Sonny Blake. Even though he no longer believed in all the touchy-feely crap of empaths, the woman had a success rate that defied belief. While there, he might even gain some brilliant insight into how to resurrect his sagging career. His gaze lifted to Dresden, who was studying his expression with an eagle eye.

  “I suppose you’ll want a full accounting once I meet this paragon of virtue and take stock of things?” he asked.

  A smirk came his way. “A quick e-mail will do,” Dresden replied. “As a courtesy to the agency, though, you might ask Sonny Blake to share some insigh
t into your sudden career meltdown.”

  “And if she senses nothing?”

  Dresden rapped his knuckles on the desk. “She’ll sense something, you can bet on it.”

  “No, you can bet on it,” Logan chided. “I prefer my bets to be tangible—something I can see and touch—not supernatural.”

  “One more thing,” Dresden cautioned, handing Logan the file folder. “When you get there, use the shuttle to the retreat. It runs every hour.”

  “I can rent my own vehicle,” Logan stated. “You know I work better on my own.”

  “No car—and no working alone this time. I need you to be inside the family structure. Go where they go, eat what they eat, begin to think like they think. And remember to keep Sonny in your sight at all times … You’re scowling. What now?”

  “If Sonny Blake’s accuracy is so damned high, why hasn’t she sensed her life is in danger and contacted Meta Corps?”

  “Now that’s a great question,” Dresden said. “Go and find the answer, but tread lightly. Blake Industries owns half of the New Mexico desert, not to mention it runs numerous spiritual retreats around the world. The family is constantly on the go, which makes each one of them a prime target for abduction.”

  “Have there been any hints of a kidnapping attempt?” Logan asked, reseating himself. “I like to know what I’m walking into before I get there.”

  “Another great question. It shows your brain is still functioning at some level. And no, there haven’t been any attempts yet, but if your info is correct, our killer has already picked out his next victim.”

  “Who may be at the retreat already,” Logan said.

  “Well, let’s hope that scenario doesn’t play out when you get there. Instead, let’s hope you spend a month in paradise getting in touch with your spiritual side.”

  Logan drummed his fingers on the table. Did he have a spiritual side? Not any longer. All he had was a bruised and battered ego. Besides, he never liked going into a case blind. It smacked of suicide. His gaze lifted. Perhaps The Sanctuary would turn out to be his fast track to the grave.

  “Your integrity has never been in question, Logan,” Dresden added. “All the young agents look up to you and aspire to be like you. And as for your peers, they’re devoted fans. You’ve simply hit a bad patch. It happens sometimes. I’d like to think you understand why I’m giving you this assignment.”

  “I understand perfectly. You want the case solved, and you’re sending the best to work with the best.”

  “Humility is certainly not your middle name, is it?” Logan grinned suddenly, but Dresden went on. “Do the right thing when you get there. Listen to Sonny and then use your logic to solve these murders, because it would be a real shame if your gravestone read: ‘Here lies a pompous has-been.’” He left the table without glancing back; however, when he reached the door, he paused. “I’m sure you’ll be clever enough to avoid any media hounds lurking outside. But just in case, I’ll play the decoy. Take the earliest flight out you can, preferably tonight’s red-eye.”

  He left the room as quickly as he had come in, and Logan eyed the file folder with a twisted smirk. He had been reduced to a fucking babysitter. Worse, an empath’s babysitter. Was he ready to be around another empath? It had been, what, thirty minutes since he’d found his last one?” Pompous has-been ... The words had him launching himself from the table with a growl. Pompous? Maybe. Has-been? Not bloody likely.

  Cradling the file folder, Logan left the room and crossed the squad room to the rear exit stairwell. Passing through, he let his mind shift gears. He’d show the Meta Corps bastards he still had what it took to close a case with his client still alive. He’d work with Sonny Blake. He’d even pretend to believe in her supernatural powers. But that’s all he’d do—pretend to believe.

  He tripped out the basement door into the parking garage, and his spirits suddenly lifted. The desert landscape would be awash in colorful cactus blooms this time of the year. And the night sky, filled with exotic perfumes, would be a starry expanse that let a man breathe—a far cry from the neon lights of big-city streets. He slipped from the building into the rear alleyway and headed west towards Broadway. When he hit the sidewalk and turned south towards home, he began to whistle softly. By this time tomorrow, he’d be basking in the New Mexico sun and enjoying the best vacation he’d had in years. And best of all, he could charge all his expenses to the Meta Corps bastards.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A heavy downpour swept the arid landscape, angling towards the cottages dotting The Sanctuary Spiritual Retreat. The yoga group meditating on an open-air platform ignored the first of the raindrops—until a huge crack of thunder shook the stage and sent them scurrying for cover. Two miles away, sunbathers heard the crack, followed by an ominous series of lightning arcs, and wisely fled the pool area for the clubhouse.

  Once inside, they watched the approaching light show, snacking on fruit and cheese and joking about Mother Nature’s ability to go berserk at a moment’s notice. In minutes, the usually dry streambeds surrounding the buildings brimmed with excess runoff, and surly winds whipped sand into abrasive blankets.

  In the heart of the Serenity offices, Sonny Blake took no notice of the light show going on outside the windows. Instead, she was immersed in bringing Lydia Summers out of her past life-regression session in the gentlest way possible.

  “Three, two, one. Open your eyes, Lydia.”

  The young girl’s eyes fluttered open, and her gaze found the ring of chairs encircling her. “Did it work?” she asked, her eyes scanning her companions.

  Giggles showered the air at her question. Babe Armstrong was the first to speak.

  “Of course it worked, you dolt! Miss Blake took you back at least two lifetimes.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened even more. “Really. I went back two lifetimes?”

  The girls giggled again. Becky Sanders spoke this time.

  “You should’ve heard your voice. It was sexy as hell. You were some kind of prostitute, we think.”

  Hearing the statement, Sonny stepped in. The girls’ imaginations were taking flight. “I think that’s enough excitement for today, ladies,” she declared. “This session is now officially over.”

  The girls sprang from their chairs, gathering up their belongings and giving Sonny exuberant bear hugs as they left.

  “You’re the best, Miss Blake,” Becky complimented her, squeezing her arm. “You make the sessions so much fun, we forget to be afraid.”

  “Becky’s right. You’re scary good, Miss Blake.”

  Sonny laughed outright. “I like the good part, but the scary part—not so much.”

  The girls drifted away, chatting amongst themselves as they made a beeline out the front door and off towards the hiking trails. When they were out of sight, Sonny closed the door with a relieved sigh. The session had drained her energy more than she cared to admit. For a brief moment during the last regression, she had caught a glimpse of the frightened girl from her dreams, only this time the girl had been begging for mercy from her captor. Why the hell wouldn’t the image go away and stay away?

  A sudden thought of the girl’s body being buried beneath one of the trees in the meditation garden assailed Sonny’s senses, and she fled back to her desk quickly. Once there, she picked up a bagged Tarot card and held it in her gloved hand. She needed to concentrate on something challenging right now. She scanned the card’s image, looking for a hidden meaning. When none came, she flung the card back onto her desk.

  The Tarot cards had arrived by overnight mail from Meta Corps, and she was damn sorry she had agreed to look at them. Each time she looked at the images, she felt violated—a sure sign that she was identifying with the slain women.

  The card left at the first murder scene had been The Fool—dressed in jester attire and walking off a monstrous cliff. The second card, Judgment, had depicted the opposite feeling, with its angel blowing Saint Gabriel’s horn. The third card, The High Priestess, had resonate
d strongly within her, and she knew without even touching the card that she had met the murdered girl here at the retreat sometime in the last two years. The fourth card she hadn’t even bothered to look at. She could sense its evil right through the plastic, and her soul had shied away from imprinting it on her memory. It would lie on her desk till hell froze over, she decided. The fifth card, The Tower, she had slipped into her desk drawer after scanning. Why, she didn’t know. It had just felt like the right thing to do. However, pieces of it still peeped from the corner of the drawer, as if to say, “You’re not quite through with me yet.”

  Realizing she needed an energy boost badly, Sonny shoved her chair back and sprang to her feet. The sound of fabric ripping made her emit a heated curse. Now the damn cards had cost her a perfectly beautiful blouse. She fingered the tattered fabric, wishing some arrogant agent from Meta Corps’ office was standing in front of her. She would have loved to knock him to the floor and damn him to hell.

  Delighted by such a perverse thought, she tore off her owl-framed glasses and tossed them onto the desk. What agent was Meta Corps sending? And when would he show his arrogant face? It wasn’t like Meta Corps to be so vague about an agent’s name. Perhaps you’re under the microscope, her inner voice suggested. After all, you’ve been declining their requests for help the last several months.

  Dismissing the dig, she fled to the windows that overlooked the carefully manicured lawns beyond the terrace. Her gaze sought the signpost marked “Serenity,” but all she saw was sheets of pelting rain. She drew in her breath. When had the storm started? Usually she sensed an impending storm coming and took pains to close the blinds. She hated storms. They played havoc with her empathic skills.

  Mesmerized by the light show over the distant mountaintops, Sonny was surprised when a beam of light illuminated her reflection in the glass. She had a nice pear-shaped face, but it looked like someone else’s face today—crow’s feet, tension lines along the forehead … She gave a sigh, returning her attention to the hammering rain and her scattered thoughts. A face with a haunted look was appropriate for a woman suffering from a psychotic break.