by Jenna Ryan
“Ah, yes. Tallulah Black’s death was a bit of a botch-up on our part.”
“There were extenuating circumstances.”
“So you say,” Cutter replied. And let the smile climb into his eyes. “It’s been a game of cat-and-mouse between us from the beginning, hasn’t it, Crucible? You devise and act. I observe and critique.” Only the tone of his voice altered, and only by a fraction. “Where is Twila Black’s great-granddaughter?”
“We tracked her to Miami, then lost the trail.”
Shrugging, Cutter adjusted his hat. “I’m impressed. We lost her in San Francisco. I assume she went there for some reason connected to Twila.”
“It’s a reasonable assumption.”
In Crucible’s opinion, Lucifer had very little on Tom Cutter. But then hadn’t Cutter once said the same thing about him?
“I used your computer,” Cutter remarked now from under his hat, “to peruse Rosemary Sayer’s file. She’s rather lovely, don’t you think? A clinical psychologist who does a great deal of work with delinquent youths. I imagine several of those youths have developed serious infatuations with her.”
“Leshad’s not a delinquent youth.”
“But he might have been.” Cutter raised his hat a few inches to grin broadly. “At one point or other. Conversely, he might have been a brilliant child. You know what they say about the line between genius and insanity.”
“There are some who say you provided the benchmark for that line.” Crucible regarded him half-lidded. “There are only so many places she can go. We’ll find her.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Cutter’s smile dimmed as his feet hit the floor. “The question is, will she be alive or dead when you do?”
* * *
“You don’t like the position Ben put you in.” Rosemary didn’t need to be psychic to read the irritation on Tanner’s face; however, she preferred things stated to implied. “I don’t blame you, but as you said, Ben trusted you enough to send me here, and truthfully, while I’d rather eat grilled snapping turtle than fruitcake, I’d force down two hundred loaves before I’d put my life in the hands of Crucible or the directors. Ben said only Satan has more secrets than Crucible and only because Satan’s older.”
Tanner didn’t respond, merely slid her an assessing look and gestured toward his truck. “You want to talk, I’ll oblige you. But I’ve got business to take care of at the same time. Climb in, wait, and count yourself lucky you’re able to do it. Zelda doesn’t like females of any species invading her territory. She gets extra cranky when they’re prettier than her.”
Rosemary swept her gaze around what could at best be called an overgrown clearing. “Exactly how big is Zelda?”
“Over nine feet, but it’s the cranky part you have to watch out for.”
Rosemary didn’t run to the truck, but she wasn’t foolish enough to drag her feet either. She’d known back in Boston that she had nothing to lose by coming here. She was also smart enough to know she had nothing to gain by deliberately trying to out-bitch a female alligator.
It didn’t surprise her that the truck’s passenger door refused to open. Three giant dents punched into the lower half probably accounted for that. She circled the hood warily, because, hello, territorial reptile in the vicinity, one that was a whole lot bigger than the geckos Ben had loved as a kid.
And damn it, why had she gone there after six hellish days of not?
Exasperated by her lack of mental control, she yanked the driver’s door open. And stopped dead.
“Well, God.”
From the step-up, she stared in disbelief at a collection of tools, CDs, cast-off clothing, thermoses, papers and more strewn across every surface. Oh, and there was a sawed-off shotgun half-buried on the seat, as well. Perfect.
Her step had a bizarre idea of what constituted a safe harbor, she reflected. Shoving the shotgun upright so it wouldn’t accidently go off in her face, she ventured into the cab, muttering, “You might have mentioned your old navy buddy was really Aunt Phyllis in disguise, Ben. A hot male disguise, but still.”
“Who’s Aunt Phyllis?” Tanner asked from behind.
Undaunted, Rosemary crawled over a mound of maps and diagrams. “Your soul mate.” Picking up an old car stereo, she dropped into the passenger seat with a whoosh of cracked leather. “Apparently. No offense, Tanner, but you’re a pig.”
He got in, slammed the door. “What you call being a pig, I call being prepared. For any eventuality.”
She held up the old stereo. “Because you never know when you might need a rusty cassette deck.”
“Eight-track.”
“Even better.”
“You know, for someone who wants my help, you’re awfully critical.”
He started the engine. Or rather he cranked it until it turned over.
“Aunt Phyllis is a hoarder,” she told him.
“Your great-grandmother was a psychic.”
“We all have our crosses to bear, Tanner. Did something just move under that Playboy on the dash?”
“Sports Illustrated, and between my worn struts and Weezer’s dark day thunder, the magazine’s not the only thing in here that’s moving.”
“So the short answer would be no.”
“Actually the short answer would be it’s not Zelda. But we’re in the swamp, I leave my windows rolled down when it’s hot, and there are plenty of creatures smaller than her that like to burrow under paper. Next question.”
She wedged the tape deck behind the seat. “What makes you think I have one?”
“Because the best defense is a good offense, and you’re scared. Don’t like it, but you are.” He stopped speaking to regard the storm clouds through the windshield. “Lightning’s going to ground directly in front of us.”
Rosemary held on to her seat as he swerved to avoid a large boulder on the—whatever they were driving on. “Okay, naive question, but if the lightning really is striking the ground ahead of us, why are we driving toward it?”
“Because that’s where one of my properties is.”
Stunned, she faced him. “You own properties? In the brimming-with-every-nasty-thing-this-planet-has-to-offer swamp?”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t take his eyes off what she was mostly willing to accept might be the local version of a road. “Short answer’s yes. The longer one involves the convoluted hows and whys of my becoming a landlord.”
Lightning spread web-like across the clouds. Hard on its heels, thunder reverberated through the muggy air and up into Tanner’s truck.
“This is so not how I planned to spend my vacation.” Rosemary ground her teeth and dug in as the vehicle tilted hard to the left. “Do you really own properties, or are you on Leshad’s payroll and you just never mentioned it to Ben?”
Tanner glanced over. “Swamp would be a good place to dispose of you if I were.”
When he didn’t continue, she sighed. “Look, none of this was my idea, you do understand that, right? I had two weeks’ vacation time coming, and at Ben’s insistence, I booked seats under a false name on three unconnected flights.”
“To where?”
“Not where you’re thinking.”
“Yeah?” He slowed for no idea what and challenged her softly. “Where am I thinking, Rosemary?”
“Not where I planned to go.” She let two seconds tick by before twisting around to regard him. “Okay, fine. One minor demonstration coming up. You’re thinking Rarotonga. Not because you believe I’m going there, but because you’re curious. Not a believer, but hey, weird shit happens between blue moons, I’ve got a fantastic ass, and maybe Crucible manipulated me into coming here—which, sorry, no, he didn’t. On the contrary, I’ve spent six nightmarish days tossing out mental red herrings so I could do what Ben died wanting me to do. Does that satisfy your curiosity, or would you like me to add that the full jerry can you meant to put in the back of your truck won’t do you a whole lot of good sitting in your shed.” She smiled with her lips onl
y. “Just thought I’d toss that in seeing as you’re low on gas.”
He skirted a series of deep ruts while lightning stroked the tops of the moss-laden cypress and sycamore trees. “Your great-grandmother had powerful psychic abilities.”
“Yes.”
“Your control’s not as good, but I’d guess your abilities are even more powerful.”
Having vented the worst of her temper, Rosemary tipped her head from side to side. “Fortunately for all concerned, a direct comparison’s no longer possible.”
“Did your stepbrother happen to mention any of the rumors about Leshad and his idiosyncrasies?”
“Not specifically, but I’m aware that Leshad had my great-grandmother Twila and my great-great-aunt Tallulah murdered.”
“Do you know why?”
Black amusement glimmered. “Well, duh, Tanner.”
“Bear in mind, Obi-Wan, I’ve been out of the agency loop for some time. Also, I can’t poke around in people’s heads.”
“Obi-Wan didn’t poke, and neither do I. To answer your question, I’ll speculate that Leshad’s afraid of people with psychic ability, and of my family in particular. I’m not sure why—”
He cut her off. “Hold the thought, Rosemary, and when I tell you to duck, duck.”
“What?”
“Duck.”
“Yes, I heard that part, but—”
“Now!” Reaching over, he shoved her head below the level of the dash. A second later, the entire front windshield of his truck exploded.
* * *
Tanner made sure she didn’t get up by covering her body with his. Swearing softly, he grabbed Weezer’s sawed-off shotgun, whacked the barrel twice on the dash and eased up just high enough to take aim.
“Don’t move,” he told Rosemary. She wasn’t, but you never knew with outsiders. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Put the rifle down, Ernest. This is my land, remember?”
A second shot blasted through the cab and took out the rear windshield.
“Well, now you’re pissing me off.”
“Is that what he’s doing?” Rosemary worked herself around so she was kneeling on the floor. “It seems more like he’s trying to kill us.”
“You should probably get used to that.” Tanner searched the foliage. “Come on, you bastard. Give me something to shoot at.”
“Is Ernest one of your tenants?” Rosemary demanded.
“His brother is. Ernest’s an on-again, off-again junkie who’s also bipolar. It’s not a good combo. He’s been hanging around the area for the past two months.”
“Collecting the rent must be a challenge.”
“Would be if he paid any.” He whipped the shotgun to his shoulder as he spoke and fired.
They traded two more rounds of buckshot until lightning illuminated the dense undergrowth and revealed the target Tanner had been looking for.
“Gotcha, asshole,” he said, and squeezed the trigger one more time.
The silence that followed was eerie enough to make him wonder. Then thunder rumbled through the sky and the swamp came slowly back to life.
“We’ll wait a few minutes to be sure.” He pushed back to his side of the truck. “Are you all right?”
Rosemary brushed tiny pieces of tempered glass from the sweep of long chestnut hair that, like her face, breasts, legs and, oh yeah, fantastic ass, he’d been doing his damndest to ignore.
“Other than the fact that you threw me onto a bed of lug nuts and socket wrenches, I’m fine. Why is your tenant’s brother here in the back of beyond instead of somewhere more civilized getting the treatment he so obviously requires?”
“That’s an excellent question.” Tanner handed her the shotgun. “One day you’ll see or meet Ernest’s brother, and you’ll have your answer.”
“Not a friendly man?”
“Some in these parts don’t believe he’s a man at all. Leave it there,” he suggested and with a glance at the clouds, shoved the truck door open. “I need to make sure Ernie’s still breathing. If a guy who looks like a zombie comes back instead of me, use your Sigma on him. Unless…” He sent her a humorously quizzical look.
She smiled, again only with her lips. “Sorry, Tanner, I can’t sense Ernest’s mind. It’s a distance thing. Best I can tell you is I think I saw someone creeping through the undergrowth to your left.”
“That’s something anyway.” Tanner gestured at the floor. “Gun, Rosemary.”
He checked and then pumped his own weapon as he headed into the swamp. And with every step he took, he cursed Ben Sayer straight to Hell.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rosemary couldn’t have said, not exactly, how everything had screwed up so badly in such a short period of time. She was used to weird, and her life to date had had more than its share of strange moments, but still.
Her great-grandmother, great-great-aunt and one long-deceased cousin had all been telepathic. Her mother, too, even if she’d spent more time in mental facilities than out of them.
Although he hadn’t said it in words, she knew Ben’s father had never been at ease around her. He’d been fine with her mother for the simple reason that her mother’s psychic ability hadn’t reared its ugly head until she’d felt it in her daughter two years after she’d married him. Once noticed, she’d gone slowly and not always quietly insane.
Ben, on the other hand, had found the whole thing cool. He’d accompanied Rosemary numerous times to visit Twila in San Francisco. He’d peppered both Twila and her sister Tallulah with questions about mind reading—which wasn’t an accurate term, but details hadn’t mattered to Ben. What had fascinated him was that he could think about a bloodsucking vampire, and Rosemary could describe, without a word of prompting, the bloodsucker he was envisioning. How many guys had stepsisters who could do that?
And now Ben, her best friend, her ally, her brother, was dead. He’d sent her to his friend. A man, she suspected, who would cheerfully send her to Hell if he thought that would end the nightmare of deaths and silhouette calling cards.
Too bad for Sean Tanner he had a conscience. She’d seen it in his face when he’d returned to his truck carrying a second shotgun and two assault rifles.
“Ernest’s decided to lay low at his brother’s for a while so I can get the place, he believes I should continue to let him live in free of charge, ready for the new tenant.”
Five minutes later, Rosemary discovered that the “place” in question wasn’t the shack she’d been anticipating. True, it was a higgledy-piggledy house with multiple additions, and she imagined alligators crawled onto the porch with regularity, but the windows looked new and the walls stood almost straight.
Mind you, she only caught a glimpse of the exterior while Tanner locked up and lightning turned the clouds hanging over it a purpled shade of black. After a quick scan of the boat dock, he took them back to where they’d started.
Rosemary set her sights on the four-wheel drive she’d rented from a fearsome bar owner in Bayou Faye and crossed her fingers that Zelda wasn’t playing hide and seek inside it.
“How much did he charge you?” Tanner headed for the shed and presumably his jerry can of fuel.
She hopped out, scanned the ground. “Fifty dollars a day, plus wear and tear.”
“You got robbed.”
“I figured that.” She hunted in the pocket of her jeans for the keys. “But I don’t argue with men who look like Frankenstein.”
“Herman Munster,” Tanner said over his shoulder. “That’s what the locals call him. Put the keys away, Rosemary. You won’t be needing them. You know it, and so do I. Let’s not play games.”
Keeping her hand in her pocket, she pivoted to meet his stare. “I don’t play games, Tanner. They tend not to turn out well for my opponents, especially if one of them pisses me off.”
“Like I’m doing now.” With a smile tugging on his lips, he spread his arms. “Go on, take your best shot. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kill me, but anything else is fair—little
Mim.”
She reacted instinctively with steel-edged daggers of pain piercing her heart and mind.
“Shit!” He took what streamed out of her and into him, but eyed her narrowly, far more angry than fearful. “What the fuck was that?”
She spaced her response with care. “Don’t call me that again. Ever.”
Keeping his dark eyes on hers, he started forward. “Did you just shoot flaming arrows into my head?”
She breathed in and out. “You felt what I was feeling. I loved Ben, Tanner. He was my rock, and now he’s dead. You stick emotional pins in me, chances are I’ll retaliate. Don’t call me little Mim again.” And don’t come any closer, she thought, but stopped short of firing the words at him.
Tanner had an aura, a dangerous sexual vibe that both intrigued and unsettled her. She wondered idly who’d wind up on the losing end of that discovery.
He wore a denim vest over a sleeveless white tee, faded jeans and boots that had seen better days. He’d tied a red bandana around his head like a sweatband, the leather cuffs on his wrists held extra ammo clips, presumably for his Glock, and the tattoo inked high on his left arm looked like a random scattering of bullet holes, ragged and rimmed with red. His hair was long and dark, his features riveting.
No way around it. The package rocked.
He continued to advance. “I don’t like threats, ultimatums, or psychic assaults, Rosemary. You want my help, you stay the hell out of my head. I get the picture, probably a whole lot better than you do in spite of your ability. I have things to do tonight. You can bunk in the guest room. When I’m done and the storm passes, we’ll leave. Are we clear?”
Rosemary held her ground, let the retaliatory lash slide. “As bayou mud.”
He regarded her at close range, and damn him, almost made her breath hitch. “We’ll try for first thing tomorrow.”
