by Kay Hooper
“You’re making a giant assumption just because we found one timer.”
“That’s not why I’m making it. It’s what I heard him begin to tell Lindsay. That he doesn’t kill. He never kills, not with his own hands, not directly. Partly to deflect responsibility. But for another reason too. Kill somebody quickly and all you have is a dead body. There’s little suspense, little chance for fear to build until it becomes terror. But show somebody how you mean to kill them a few minutes or a few hours from that moment, and then walk away . . .”
Lucas was silent, frowning.
“The other victim from Golden, Mitchell Callahan. He was decapitated, wasn’t he? I heard there was something strange about that, something the ME was surprised by.”
Slowly, Lucas said, “He appeared to have been killed by a very sharp blade, in a single stroke. Maybe by a machete or sword.”
“Or maybe,” Samantha offered, “by a guillotine?”
Lucas’s first reaction was disbelief, followed immediately by anger that he hadn’t seen it before now. “A guillotine.”
“It’s obvious the kidnapper knows how to build. Easy enough to build a guillotine. Set on a timer, the way this . . . machine was. With the victim—with Callahan probably fastened in, looking up. Seeing the blade hanging over him. Knowing it would drop. Maybe he could even hear the timer ticking away the minutes he had left.”
“Fear,” Lucas said. “Bait for me.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s creating the fear to lure you. And maybe . . . to punish you.”
Lucas wasn’t very surprised, but said, “So you’ve reached that conclusion too, huh? That I know this bastard, crossed paths with him somewhere?”
“It makes sense. To go to all this trouble, build this sort of . . . of murder machine isn’t something a man would do just to win a game. Even a crazy man. Unless the game was personal. It has to be personal, and that makes it more likely than ever that he’s done his homework on you. He must know how you’re able to find abduction victims, that you feel what they feel. Right up until the moment of death, you suffer along with them.”
After a moment, Lucas shook his head. “In the last year and a half, we’ve arrived on the scene early enough for me to feel anything at all in less than half the cases. If he wants me to suffer—”
“He’s doing a damned good job. You might not feel the fear and pain of the victim when you get there too late, but in that case you probably suffer even more. And anyone who’s ever worked with you or watched you work knows it.”
Lucas fought a sudden impulse to reach out to her, saying only, “Suffer is a relative term.”
“Not with you it isn’t.” Her smile was small and fleeting.
“Why did you come here today, Sam?” he asked, changing the subject. Or not.
“I left something with Jay,” she replied readily. “A pendant Caitlin Graham found on Lindsay’s nightstand. We both believe it was put there the day she was taken.”
“Why do you believe that?”
Samantha pulled her right hand from the pocket of her jacket and held it toward him, palm out. “I’m on a roll.”
The room where he worked was small and, he liked to think, cozy. The place was remote enough that nobody bothered him, and since no neighbors were close by, his comings and goings were pretty much his own business.
Which is how he liked it.
He bent forward over the table, moving carefully. He wore gloves as he cut words and letters from the Golden local newspaper, from the inside pages no human hand would have touched. A fresh sheet of white paper lay nearby, and glue.
He had to chuckle. It was hokey, of course, as well as completely unnecessary to use newsprint. But the effect, he knew, would be much greater than an ordinary computer-generated, ink-jet-printed note could command.
Besides, it was amusing. To think of their reaction. To picture Luke’s face.
Time to up the ante.
He wondered if the agent had caught up yet. Maybe. Maybe he’d figured out at least part of it. Maybe he was beginning to understand the game.
In any case, the clock was moving faster now. There was no longer time for the leisurely trip up and down the East and Southeast, no longer time to allow a lull between the moves of the game.
It was a risk he had taken, confining the end of the game to one place, a small town. There were drawbacks. But advantages as well, and he felt those outweighed the drawbacks.
It was almost over now.
Almost.
Just a few more moves.
He wondered, vaguely, what he’d do when this was over. But it was a fleeting question quickly pushed aside, and he bent once more over his work.
Just a few more moves . . .
“None of that makes any sense,” Lucas said finally.
“You’re the profiler,” Samantha responded.
“Do you expect me to profile a vision?”
“Why not? If a forensic psychologist can develop a psychological autopsy on a dead person, then why can’t you deconstruct a vision?”
Jaylene, sitting at one end of the conference table and eyeing them as they sat across from each other, intervened to say mildly, “Off the top of my head, sounds like the vision was about fear.”
“Felt like it was too,” Samantha said. She sipped her tea and grimaced, murmuring, “I’m going to be up all night.”
“Are you reading tonight?” Lucas asked.
“The carnival is open, I’m reading.”
“You’re tired. Go to bed early, get some sleep.”
“I’m fine.” She looked at her marked palm, where the imprint of the spider pendant remained, adding, “Dented a bit more, but fine.”
“It’s dangerous, Sam. You’re a target.”
“Not until Wednesday or Thursday.”
Scowling, he said, “You’re the one who warned me not to assume with this bastard. We can’t assume he’ll play by his own rules, remember? There’s nothing to say he won’t take someone today or tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She looked at him steadily. “All I can do is read. Play what’s in front of me. If I’m one of his pawns, then sooner or later he’ll show up to make his move.”
Jaylene said, “What if you’re his queen?”
For the first time, Samantha looked slightly disconcerted. “Chess isn’t my game. I don’t know enough about it to—”
Lucas said, “The most powerful piece on the board. The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.”
She lifted her brows. “I doubt I’m that.”
“He went to a lot of trouble to get you here,” Lucas told her. “There’s something Jay found out a bit earlier about that circus that got into the next town on your schedule ahead of you. Seems the owner was paid—what he thought was an incentive from someone in the town—to cancel their scheduled two weeks off and go to work instead. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Lucas paused. “The first maneuver to alter the schedule of the Carnival After Dark. Now you explain how Golden was chosen as an alternate town.”
“I told you. I had a dream.”
“A vision. What was it, Sam?”
She shook her head slowly, silent.
“We need to know, dammit.”
“All you need to know is that the dream brought us here. I suggested to Leo that Golden would be the perfect alternative. He agreed. We came here.”
Jaylene frowned and said to Lucas, “So that wasn’t something he controlled.”
His gaze still locked with Samantha’s, Lucas shook his head. “Nothing was left to chance. Nothing. Sam and the carnival are here because he wanted them to be. Aren’t you, Sam?”
From the doorway, triumphantly, Wyatt Metcalf announced, “He got paid. Leo Tedesco was paid ten thousand dollars to bring his carnival to Golden.”
Samantha glanced at the sheriff without changing expression, then returned her gaze to Lucas. “Sorry, I thought I mentioned that,” she said calmly. “We’re also here because Leo was pai
d what was termed a cash advance to set up in Golden. Bundle of cash and a registered letter, posted from here in town. Supposedly from an anonymous donor who wanted the carnival here for his kids. I’m sure the sheriff has a copy of the letter, or will soon.”
Grim, Lucas said, “And none of that alerted you that something shady might be going on?”
“Matter of fact, it did. But, hey, ten grand. I play what’s in front of me, remember?” She looked at the sheriff again, this time steadily. “It’s not the first time something similar has happened, though the amount was . . . unusual. And before you start trying to figure out how to arrest Leo for the money, bear in mind that he’d already reported it in last quarter’s income records as a cash advance. To the IRS. And sent a copy of the letter to document it. If he’d wanted to hide it, your people never would have found a trace of the money.”
The dawning realization on Wyatt’s face showed that he hadn’t considered that, and his frustration was so obvious that Samantha actually felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Sorry,” she said to him. “But as I keep trying to tell you, Leo and the carnival have nothing to do with this kidnapper and his schemes.”
“I notice you didn’t include yourself in that,” Wyatt snapped.
“I seem to be in a different position. For whatever reason, the kidnapper appears to want me here.”
Lucas said, “You could have made a different choice. Leo could have pocketed the money or reported it, and the carnival could have chosen another town.”
“Yeah, well. There was that dream.”
“Why the hell didn’t you mention the money before now?”
“She wouldn’t have mentioned it now if my people hadn’t found it,” Wyatt reminded him.
Staring at Samantha, Lucas said, “Well?”
With a shrug, she said coolly, “I had to give the sheriff something suspicious to find, didn’t I?”
“Bullshit,” Wyatt muttered.
“It kept you occupied and out of my hair, for a few hours at least,” she informed him politely.
Lucas had a hunch it was more the former than the latter but didn’t question her.
Wyatt sat down at the opposite end of the table from Jaylene, still scowling. To Lucas, he said, “We’re two-thirds of the way through your list of kidnappings for the last eighteen months.”
“And?” Lucas knew the answer already, but asked anyway.
“And . . . in about half the cases, the Carnival After Dark was sited within fifty miles of the kidnapping.”
“Half.”
“Yeah.”
“What about the other half?”
“They were farther away, obviously.” Wyatt met those steady blue eyes and grimaced. “A lot farther, in some cases. Nearly two hundred miles away, on average.”
Samantha asked, “So will you please leave Leo and the rest alone now?”
“Including yourself this time?”
“No. As I believe I’ve told you before, I never expect impossible things.”
“Smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Lucas sighed. “Enough. Wyatt, stop wasting time on the carnival. And, Sam, if you don’t tell me about that dream—”
But she was shaking her head. “Sorry. I saw a Welcome to Golden sign and knew I was supposed to be here. That’s all you get, Luke. That’s all that matters.”
“Maybe,” Jaylene said, “that’s all we need.” She was watching Lucas steadily. “For now.”
He shook his head, but said, “That pendant. Wyatt, you don’t recall seeing it when you checked out Lindsay’s apartment after she was taken?”
“It wasn’t there.”
“Maybe you missed it.”
Wyatt shook his head. “I didn’t miss it. It wasn’t there, trust me on that. I knew Lindsay was terrified of spiders, so I damned well would have noticed that thing on her nightstand.”
To Samantha, Lucas said, “Is Caitlin back at the motel?”
“Yeah. We both thought it would be wise for her to wait for your okay before she started going through Lindsay’s apartment. Because if he was there . . .”
“He might have left some evidence. If we’re lucky. Wyatt, we’ll need to canvass the building as well as search the apartment. You were there early afternoon on Thursday and didn’t see the pendant; Caitlin found it on Sunday morning. Maybe somebody in the building noticed a stranger during that time.”
“If we’re lucky?” Wyatt shook his head. “Worth a shot, I guess.”
Samantha looked at the clock on the wall and rose. “In the meantime, I have to go get ready to open my booth.” She started around the table toward the door.
Before Lucas could protest, Wyatt said, “Conning people as usual, huh, Zarina?”
On any other day, at any other time, Samantha probably would have let the jibe pass without protest. But she was tired, her hand hurt, there was a lingering, unpleasant feeling that her head was stuffed with cotton, and she had just about reached the end of her patience with Wyatt Metcalf.
“What the hell is your problem?” she demanded, rounding on him. But before anyone could speak, she added, “On second thought, why don’t I find out for myself?”
That was all the warning she gave before reaching out and grasping his shoulder. Hard.
10
“Sam—”
Lucas knew the instant Samantha touched the sheriff that she’d been yanked into a vision. What surprised him was how frozen Wyatt seemed to be, his gaze fixed on her face while his own was both pale and somewhat defiant.
“She is wide open,” Lucas muttered, watching them. “It wasn’t like this before.”
“We all mature in our abilities,” Jaylene reminded him. “It’s been three years, so maybe a lot has changed.”
“Maybe. But for her to do this . . . Dammit, I warned Wyatt to get off her case.”
“He seems the type that needs to learn a lesson the hard way,” Jaylene suggested wryly. “Maybe it had to happen, sooner or later.”
Lucas half agreed with her, but then he realized that Samantha’s nose was bleeding. Swearing under his breath, he went quickly around the table to her, digging for his handkerchief and saying to Jaylene, “Not if this is the price.”
“I’ve never seen—”
“I have.” He grasped Samantha’s wrist and firmly pulled her hand from Wyatt’s shoulder. “Sam?”
“Hmm?” She blinked and looked up at him, frowning, and accepted the handkerchief he gave her as if it were something alien. “What’s this?”
“Your nose is bleeding.”
“Not again. Shit.” She pressed the handkerchief to her nose and looked at Wyatt, adding, “I’m sorry. That was an invasion of privacy, and unforgivable.”
“You said it, not me,” he muttered. But he was watching her intently, frowning, and no one had to ask what he was thinking and wondering.
“I’m also sorry about your friend,” she told him matter-of-factly. “But we both know the seer who told him he was going to die didn’t force him to kill himself.”
He paled and went very still once again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Samantha knew all too well that most people disliked having their secrets dragged out into the open, and it went against her nature to expose Wyatt’s when there were others present. But the other two people in the room were also psychic, and as much as she hated doing it, Samantha felt that they all needed to know why Wyatt Metcalf so hated and distrusted “fortune-tellers.”
“You were very young,” she said, holding her voice level. “Maybe twelve or so. You weren’t here in Golden—it was on a coast somewhere, at the ocean. You and some friends went to a carnival, and on a dare you all had your fortunes told by the seer.”
“She was no seer. She—”
Samantha kept talking, ignoring the interruption. “She let all of you remain in her booth while she told your fortunes, one by one. Most of what she told each of you was vague and positive, not surprisin
gly. No reputable psychic would ever deliberately tell a client—especially a young one—that something tragic would happen to them, particularly if they could do nothing to avert that fate. But your friend, your best friend, was troubled. He’d been troubled a long time, and you knew it. He’d even talked about killing himself.”
“He didn’t—I didn’t believe—”
“Of course you didn’t believe him. Who believes in suicide at twelve except someone who wants to die? But the seer believed him. She knew he was serious, and she took a chance. With all of you listening, she warned him that he would die if he didn’t change his life. And that dying would solve nothing, help nothing, and only hurt those he left behind.” Samantha paused, adding quietly, “She was trying to help.”
“No,” Wyatt said. “If she hadn’t said that, hadn’t put it into his head—”
“It was already in his head. Already his fate. And you know it was. If you want to go on blaming her, then at least be honest with yourself. She wasn’t trying to con anybody or deceive anybody, and she certainly intended no harm. She did the best she could for a stranger.”
Wyatt stared up at her for a long moment, then pushed back his chair, got up, and left the conference room.
“I just keep making friends, don’t I?” Samantha murmured, refolding the handkerchief and pressing it to her still-bleeding nose.
Realizing he was still holding her wrist, Lucas let her go, saying, “Nobody likes their secrets dragged out into the light.”
“Yeah. But at least we know he has a reason for his distrust and dislike—not to say hatred. I really was hoping it wasn’t just blind prejudice.”
She sounded tired, and Lucas heard himself say roughly, “Dammit, will you go back to the motel and get some rest?”
“Maybe I’ll take a nap before tonight.” She looked at the clock and grimaced. “Or maybe not. Damned makeup takes forever if I want to do it right and not scare the clients.”
