Sense of Evil

by Kay Hooper

  “She's been dead at least a couple of months,” he told Rafe. “The fairly cool, dry conditions in here probably slowed decomp a bit, but not much. I can't be positive, of course, but from the bruising on her neck I'm guessing strangulation, probably with a rope of some kind. Whoever cut her did it postmortem, probably days afterward; there was almost no bleeding from those wounds.”

  “Anything missing?” Rafe kept his own voice as level as the doctor's, but it required a tremendous effort.

  “I'll be able to tell you more when I get her on the table, but it does look like one kidney is gone, some of the intestines, part of her stomach.”

  “Christ.”

  “Yeah. I may be able to get you prints from her, and it looks like she's had some dental work done, so we have a fair shot at an I.D. if she's one of the missing women on your list. Get this guy, Rafe. What he did to the other women was bad enough, but this . . . He's worse than a butcher.”

  Rafe didn't comment on the doctor's assumption that the same killer was responsible for this woman's death. “We're doing our best.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Dr. James hunched his shoulders a little, weariness in the gesture. “My guys are standing by to bag her as soon as yours are finished.”

  “Right.”

  “I'll get the report to you ASAP.”

  Rafe watched the doctor make his way back toward the front of the former gas station, then returned his gaze to the activities in the back room. T.J. and Dustin were working methodically, their faces grim. Off to one side, Isabel stood with Hollis as they studied the dead woman.

  If he'd been asked to guess, Rafe would have said that Hollis was feeling queasy and Isabel was exhausted. He was pretty sure both hunches were on the mark.

  Mallory joined him in the doorway and nodded toward the federal agents, saying, “They still believe she was one of Jamie's playmates, the one accidentally killed.”

  “But they don't believe Jamie did this,” Rafe said, a statement rather than a question.

  “No.”

  “Which begs the question . . .”

  “Who did. Yeah. Didn't Doc say she died two months ago at least?”

  Rafe nodded. “Before the murders started. Isabel?”

  She and Hollis immediately walked over to join them at the doorway.

  “The doc says she didn't bleed to death,” Rafe said to Isabel without preamble.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I missed that one. I'm guessing the lab work from Jamie's playhouse will come back showing several people bled in that spot over a long period of time. Some of her clients, probably, but others as well. There might even have been a murder there a long time ago.”

  “That blood trail to the door,” he noted.

  “Possibly. Or one or more of Jamie's clients.” Isabel shrugged. “In any case, I missed.”

  Mallory said dryly, “All will be forgiven if you just help us get this bastard.”

  “Was this his trigger?” Rafe asked.

  “I don't know,” Isabel replied.

  “An educated guess?”

  “If you want that . . . then maybe. Maybe he saw this woman die accidentally at Jamie's hands, and maybe it pissed him off. Or maybe he got his hands on a cold body and wondered what a warm one would feel like. Or maybe she was just a toy he played with because she happened to be handy.”

  “You're not picking up anything?” He kept his voice low.

  She grimaced slightly. “Lot of old, old stories; this building has been here a while. Arguments, mostly, but . . .”

  Whispers.

  Jesus, George, we have to do it in the backseat?

  I told you I can't afford a motel room.

  Yeah, but . . .

  Hide the stuff inside the hubcap. I'm tellin' you, the cops'll never find it here . . .

  That Jones bitch wants her car done by tomorrow or she won't pay . . .

  You're fired, Carl! I'm fucking sick and tired of . . .

  Bones bend before they break.

  She's all colors inside.

  Isabel.

  Isss . . . a . . . bellll . . .

  “Isabel?”

  She blinked and looked at Rafe. “What? Oh. Just old stuff, mostly. But he was here. A day or two ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  There was no way Isabel was going to tell Rafe that their killer had been looking at this poor woman and thinking about what he wanted to do to Isabel.

  No way.

  So all she said was, “He . . . looked at her. Thought about how she had deserved to die because she was bad.”

  Rafe frowned. “Bad?”

  “I get the sense he saw her with Jamie. Watched them. And what they did together bothered him on a very deep level. Sickened him, believe it or not.”

  Something in the dark, crouching, waiting.

  Watching.

  Isabel shivered. “It feels cold here. Really cold.”

  He was a little surprised. “Cold?”

  “Yeah.” Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, the gooseflesh on her skin actually visible. “Chilled, cold. Like a gust of icy air blowing through me. Yet another fun new experience.”

  “You said you weren't an empath.”

  “I'm not. I have no idea why I'm beginning to feel things rather than simply know them. Until now, feelings, sensations, only came with visions. Now . . .” She shivered. “No visions. But, man, I'm cold. I'm thinking that's not normal for June, never mind it not being normal for me.”

  “Maybe you're coming down with something,” Rafe suggested prosaically.

  “I sort of doubt it.”

  “It's just in here?” Hollis asked.

  “Seems to be. Outside, I was fine.”

  “Then you should be outside.”

  “We both should,” Isabel said. “You feel the cold too.” She gestured slightly, and they all saw the goose bumps on Hollis's bare arms.

  Rafe looked at both agents, then said to his detective, “Mal, would you mind staying to supervise until T.J. and Dustin are finished and the body is removed?”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks. I'll be right back.” Rafe gestured slightly, and the two other women walked with him toward the front of the building. “It's after hours for most of the businesses around here, so there's not too much traffic in the area, but I've posted a few of my people on the block to stop the curious from gathering. Or, at least, from gathering close by.”

  When they stood out on the sidewalk, Isabel could indeed see both uniformed cops and passersby at a perimeter about half a block away.

  “Great,” she muttered. “Well, at least the icy breeze stopped blowing.” She rubbed her upper arms briefly with both hands, relaxing visibly.

  To Hollis, Rafe said, “I gather you didn't pick up anything helpful in there either?”

  “No.”

  He couldn't tell whether it was because there'd been nothing for her to pick up or because she hadn't tried. He decided not to ask.

  “I was about to suggest we call it a day before Hollis and Mallory found the body. It still sounds like a good idea. First thing tomorrow we'll have a preliminary forensics report, and if I know Doc we'll have the postmortem as well. We'll have a decent shot at making an I.D. of the body, and we can start trying to piece together what happened to this lady. Between now and then there isn't much we can do. Except get some rest for tomorrow.”

  “I will if you will,” Isabel said.

  He eyed her, but before he could say anything, Hollis was speaking calmly.

  “I, for one, would just as soon start fresh tomorrow. I want to shower about six times, watch something funny on television, and maybe call my mother. If I ever feel like eating again, I'll order a pizza. You two want to be gluttons for punishment, have at it. I'm going back to the inn.”

  Isabel grimaced slightly. “A shower definitely sounds like a good idea; nobody wants to smell like death. But I'm way too restless to call it a day.” She looked at Rafe, brows lifting inq
uiringly. “Buy you dinner?”

  He checked his watch but didn't hesitate. “I'll pick you up at eight.”

  “See you then.” Isabel walked with Hollis back to their rental and got in the driver's seat. Hollis got in beside her and didn't say anything for about half a mile.

  Then she spoke slowly. “He's blocking you, isn't he? No—he's shielding you.”

  Isabel gave her partner a surprised glance, then fixed her gaze on the road again. “Bishop said you picked up on things quickly. Once again, he wasn't wrong.”

  Absently, Hollis said, “You relax a bit whenever Rafe is nearby, as if some of the strain is lifted. Maybe I see it because I used to be an artist. It started in Jamie's playroom, didn't it? When he put his hands on your wrists.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You felt something?”

  “The shock first. And then a muffling quality. Didn't shut out the voices, just . . . quieted them a bit, as though I were suddenly insulated. Just enough for me to notice. Out in the Jeep, when he was putting disinfectant on my neck and sitting so close, the voices were barely whispers. When he left to go back inside, they got louder again.”

  “And just now, back there?”

  “If he was within five feet of me, all I heard were whispers. Creepy whispers, but whispers. And felt that goddamned icy breeze; he doesn't seem to have had any effect at all on that.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “I don't know. I seem to have been saying that a lot today. I don't like saying it, for the record.”

  Hollis looked at her. “What do you hear now?”

  “Usual background hum. Like listening to a party in the next room. That's normal.”

  “Headache?”

  “Dull throb. Also normal.”

  “Rafe shielding you—is it getting stronger as time goes on?”

  Isabel shrugged. “Hard to say, since it just started hours ago. I'll have to wait and see. It could get stronger. Or it could go away entirely. God knows.” She smiled suddenly, wryly. “But if it turns out he can silence the voices, if only for a while, I may just have to move in with the man. Or at least take vacations with him.”

  “It would be nifty to have that quiet place to go to from time to time,” Hollis said seriously. “A refuge.”

  Shaking her head, Isabel said, “Something else you'd better catch on to: the universe never offers something for nothing. There'll be a price tag. There always is.”

  “Maybe it's a price you can pay.”

  “And maybe it's a price he'll have to pay instead of me. Or would, if we went in that direction. It's the sort of thing the universe demands. Cosmic irony.”

  “Doesn't seem fair. And you don't have to remind me that the universe isn't about fairness.”

  “No, it's about balance.”

  “Then maybe that's what Rafe is, for you. Balance. Maybe the universe is offering you a refuge because you push yourself so hard.”

  “Yeah, and what's it offering him? A clairvoyant, career-driven federal agent who reads up on serial killers for fun, travels all over the country on a regular basis to get shot at and talk about serial killers, not to mention meeting a few of them in deadly situations, and, oh, by the way, hasn't had a successful romantic relationship in her entire adult life?”

  “Great breath control,” Hollis murmured. “The meditation exercises must really work.”

  Ignoring that, Isabel said, “I'm fairly sure Rafe hasn't pissed off the universe enough to be offered that little balance for his life.”

  “Maybe there are qualities in you he needs for his own balancing act.”

  “And maybe,” Isabel said, “it's just a chemical or electromagnetic thing. Energy fields, nothing more. Basic science, emotions and personalities not involved.”

  She didn't have to be psychic to know she was being warned off, so Hollis didn't say anything else until her partner pulled the car into the parking lot of the inn. And then all she offered was a mild “I hear there's a surprisingly good Mexican place here in Hastings. You like Mexican, don't you?”

  “I do.”

  “And does Rafe?”

  Isabel hesitated, then said with clear reluctance, “Yes. He does.”

  As both agents got out of the car, Hollis said, again mildly, “Handy to already know so much about him. Likes and dislikes, habits, background. Sort of shortens the getting-to-know-each-other dance.”

  “For me. Not for him.”

  “Oh, I don't know about that. I have a hunch Rafe Sullivan already knows most of what he needs to about you. Except for one thing, I guess. And sooner or later, you're going to have to tell him.”

  “I know,” Isabel said.

  Special Agent Tony Harte scowled at the window as lightning flashed, then said, “Why is it that we always get the lousy weather, you want to tell me that?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Bishop responded absently as he worked at his laptop.

  “This is not lucky. This is The Universe Hates Me. Me, personally. Who got a flat tire in the rain last night? Me. Who got grazed by a bullet when a pissed-off guy who wasn't even our suspect got even more pissed off and started shooting? Me. Who had to observe what was without doubt the most gross autopsy on record? Me.”

  “Who has to put up with your bitching? Me,” Bishop said.

  “And me,” Miranda said as she came into the room. “What's he going on about now?”

  “Usual,” Bishop replied. “The universe hates him.”

  “Persecution complex.”

  “Yeah, that was my diagnosis.”

  “You two are not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Tony informed them.

  “Neither are you,” Miranda said, then smiled. “Kendra will be fine, Tony.”

  “I hate it when you do that. Here I am, working up a really good, strong mad to let off steam, and you pat me on the head—metaphorically—and tell me, there, there, sit down and be a good boy.”

  “I did no such thing. I just said Kendra would be fine. And she will.”

  “She's in Tulsa,” Tony said witheringly. “Setting aside the deranged killer she's looking for, they have tornadoes out there. Did you see today's weather?”

  “Must have missed it.” Miranda sent a glance toward the window, where another flash of lightning showed the heavy rain battering Spokane. “There was so much weather here that I didn't bother.”

  “There's a storm cell,” Tony fretted. “Big, nasty one. Bearing down on Tulsa.”

  “Tony. Kendra will be fine.”

  He eyed her cautiously. “Are you just saying that, or do you know?”

  “I know.”

  Looking up from his laptop, Bishop said mildly, “That's breaking the rules.”

  “You really want to listen to him bitch for the next few hours?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.”

  Tony was staring at Bishop in some indignation. “You knew? You knew Kendra would be fine and just sat there without easing my mind?”

  “I thought you wanted to let off steam.”

  “There wouldn't have been any steam to let off if you'd told me Kendra would be all right. Dammit.”

  “See what you started?” Bishop said to his wife.

  “Sorry. I just came in for—”

  Whatever she'd come in for, what she got was a vision.

  Even though he was relatively accustomed to seeing it happen, Tony nevertheless felt a little chill go through him as both Miranda and Bishop paled and closed their eyes, perfectly in sync. He waited, watching them, his own extra senses telling him this was a strong one, a painful one.

  Finally, they opened their eyes, each reaching up to massage one temple. Miranda sat down across from her husband, and they looked at each other, both wearing an expression Tony had never seen before.

  It caused another chill to go through him.

  “We can't interfere,” Bishop said. “We've done all we can do.”

  “I know. She'd probably ignore a warning an
yway.”

  “Probably. She's stubborn.”

  “That's one word for it.”

  Tony cared about all the members of the SCU, not only his absent fiancée, and he was anxious. “What is it?” he demanded. “What did you see?”

  Slowly, still gazing at her husband, Miranda said, “If it's literal and not symbolic, then Isabel is about to make a choice that will change her life. And put her on a very, very dangerous path.”

  “What's at the end of the path?”

  Miranda drew a breath and let it out slowly. “The death of someone she cares about.”

  10

  CALEB HEARD THE NEWS about a fourth woman's body being found when he stopped by the coffee shop for a cup to take home. The girl behind the counter—he couldn't figure out how on earth they could be called “sales associates” when they worked in a coffee shop—was only too happy to fill him in on the latest details while she prepared his latte.

  Gory details.

  “And you know the worst part?” she demanded as she put a lid on the cup.

  “Somebody died?” he suggested.

  She blinked, then said anxiously, “Well, yeah, but I heard she'd been dead for months.”

  Caleb resisted the impulse to ask what the hell difference that made. Instead, he said, “And the worst part is?”

  “She was brunette,” Sally Anne, sales associate for the coffee shop and a brunette herself, whispered.

  “Ah.”

  “So none of us is safe. He's not just going after blondes now, he's—he's going after the rest of us.”

  Caleb paid for his coffee and said with ruthless sympathy, “If I were you, I'd leave town.”

  “I might. I just might. Thanks, Mr. Powell. Oh—can I help you, ma'am?”

  “One iced mocha latte, please. Medium.”

  Caleb turned quickly, surprised to find Hollis there. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She looked tired and also more casual than he'd yet seen her, in jeans and a black T-shirt that demanded to know if the hokey-pokey was really what it was all about.

  “You're not still working?”

  “No, we've pretty much called it a day.” She shrugged. “Can't do a lot in the way of investigating the body Sally Anne just told you about until we get forensics and a postmortem.”