A Deadly Web

by Kay Hooper

  “Maybe she—and the others—needed to grow up that way. To live normal childhoods, normal lives.”

  “As psychics? Granted, I came to it late, but from what all the born psychics have said, growing up psychic runs the gamut from incredibly difficult to being locked away in a mental ward. Especially if you’re born to or raised by nonpsychics who can never understand what you are and generally consider you to have some sort of mental illness.”

  Tucker sat back in his own chair, the humming laptop evidence that he had a program running, and gazed steadily at his wife. “Maybe that had to be part of it. Survival of the fittest. You’d have to learn control, good control. You’d have to be mentally and emotionally tough to grow up with abilities that had to remain secret, shielded. The born psychics we’ve met have all been that way, to varying degrees. It’s the created psychics who struggle that tend to be a lot more fragile, at least at first. And sometimes they remain fragile, if they survive at all.”

  Slowly, Sarah said, “That might also explain the six-month window for psychics who were created like I was, abilities triggered by trauma. Maybe it takes that long for the other side to be certain that we have . . . whatever it is they need. That we can cope. That we can learn control. That we aren’t as fragile as we might seem to be in the beginning.”

  “Maybe, but we still don’t know what it is they’re looking for in psychics. It can’t just be strength or the ability to cope. They’ve taken strong psychics and walked away from others. Taken well-adjusted psychics—but also taken some pretty fragile ones.”

  With a sigh, Sarah said, “You know, it’s very frustrating that just when it seems we have a glimmer of understanding into their motives, it turns into just more smoke and mirrors.”

  “Which could also be another of their defense mechanisms,” Tucker pointed out. “This side’s always been hamstrung by having too little reliable information, too few answers to too many questions. It’s impossible to fight anything but defensively when you don’t know what the other side is really after.”

  “Other than psychics.”

  He nodded. “Other than psychics.” A soft tone drew his attention back to his laptop, which had clearly finished running its program, and Tucker frowned at the screen, scrolling through what was obviously a lot of information before finally speaking.

  “So . . . Tasha’s birth mother spent the last few months of her pregnancy, and her delivery, at a home for unwed mothers not all that far from Charleston, interestingly enough. From the looks of these records, the Solomons had made all the arrangements to adopt the child at least three months before she was born.”

  “Money change hands?”

  “Not enough. According to these records, the home itself paid all the bills, from food and clothing to medical services. The adoptive parents paid a very reasonable fee that didn’t come close to even covering expenses.”

  “That isn’t normal, is it?”

  “Beats me. But unless there’s some kind of giant nonprofit funding this—of which there is no sign—or an altruistic millionaire handy, I don’t see how a place like this could keep its doors open. Having babies isn’t cheap.” He worked a few more minutes, then swore under his breath. “This could take me years. Ownership of the business traces back to a dummy corporation, which traces back to another dummy corporation—and so on. It’s like a hall of mirrors. Somebody definitely didn’t want anyone to find out who actually owned and ran this place.”

  “Was Tasha’s birth mother paid when she left?”

  Tucker worked for several more moments, frowning, then looked up at his wife. “According to this, she lived at the home. For years, before and after Tasha was born. There are about a dozen names of young women here, and every one of them stays long enough to have at least three babies, who were already adopted even before they were born, mostly to prominent or upper-middle-class couples. Then those names vanish and new names appear.”

  “Different girls?”

  “Or just an attempt to keep out nosy authorities. Turn a blonde into a brunette, give her a different name, and who would really notice? Although there is a remarkable lack of inspection records I’d expect any place with medical facilities to keep. I’m guessing some pretty hefty bribes were paid to all the right people.”

  “What about the biological fathers?”

  Tucker scrolled a bit further, then looked up at his wife wryly. “John Smith.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Says here. Variations of very ordinary names listed as the biological fathers to numerous babies. Smith. Jones. Johnson. Anderson. Same with the girls, really. Very common, ordinary names—and none of the men appear to be at all involved in the lives of the young women or at all interested in the children. The women are just noted as pregnant, no explanation of just how that happened in a home for unwed mothers even though a name is noted as biological father. It’s a safe bet that digging to find these supposed fathers will net me exactly zero info.”

  “Any way to tell if the girls were psychic?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “There’s absolutely nothing official about the emotional or psychological traits or health of the mothers. Brief medical notes of normal pregnancies, but that’s it. No psych evals, no record of counseling, nothing. At least nothing official. I’m guessing if this place did belong to the other side, they made damned sure there were no records kept that might have even hinted that the mothers were psychic. Given enough time and background info on the staff, I might be able to find someone who kept a private record. But if we’re looking at thirty years or more of records . . .”

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  Tucker frowned back down at his computer and went back to work. “I just wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “How long they could have . . . Goddammit.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “This particular home for unwed mothers was in operation for six years. Then it closed its doors. Long enough to make progress, but not so long that anyone became suspicious.” Tucker drew a breath, and said, “Why do I get the feeling if I keep looking I’ll find more of these in other places. A lot more.”

  SIXTEEN

  Murphy was very still for a long time, leaning back in her chair with her hands clasped over her middle. Expressionless. Then, finally, she said, “How would you know that? Any of that? Don’t tell me you found it in Brodie’s mind, because I don’t believe he knew much except that Elizabeth was psychic, she broke with her family, and somebody killed her.”

  “No, it wasn’t in his mind. His . . . grief and rage, yes. The facts he knew. But that’s not how I found out. After that connection was made, after the maze, maybe while I was still sleeping or maybe when I was wide awake, I don’t know, I had a visitor in my room. Elizabeth Brodie.”

  Murphy didn’t change expression. “Have you ever had any other mediumistic experiences?”

  “No, never.”

  “But you had a visit from a dead woman.”

  Tasha leaned forward, elbows on the table, her hands cradling her coffee. “She told me her life story. About being born a psychic, about freaking out her parents—and about an abduction, when she was very young.”

  “An abduction.”

  “She was taken somewhere and kept for days. And she was heavily drugged, enough so that her psychic abilities were useless. When she woke up, she was in a hospital with her parents bending over her. She had absolutely no memory of the abduction or the days afterward. Her parents told her the bare minimum, on the advice of therapists, just that she’d been taken from them, but she was safe again and they’d make sure she was always safe. And she didn’t know for a long time that they’d made a deal with her abductors to get her back.”

  “I’m guessing you’re not talking about ransom money. What kind of deal?” Murphy asked slowly.

  “
That when the time came, when she was old enough, she’d be married off to a man she was introduced to while she was still a teenager. Eliot Wolfe.”

  Murphy opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Tasha took that as an invitation to continue. “In retrospect, I suppose Wolfe jumped the gun, maybe pushed too hard too soon. He’d been a welcome visitor in her life for years, another psychic there to . . . help her learn to cope with her abilities, or so she believed. She was a teenager, she had a crush on him, so she didn’t look very deeply for a long time. But, gradually, she became suspicious. Things overheard, looks intercepted. She managed to break through the walls they had built around her. And figured out the truth. That she had been matched with Wolfe years before, presumably while they held her hostage. Some kind of tests, but able to measure whatever they needed measured while she was unconscious. Maybe genetic, DNA. Some marker they’d learned to look for. In any case, whatever they were looking for, they found in her. And so she was intended for Wolfe. So they could breed more psychics.

  “Once she knew that, she couldn’t stay there. I doubt she even asked herself the why of it. She was horrified. So she ran. Changed her name, started a quiet life somewhere in the midwest. And met Brodie. Not the Brodie we know now, of course. Extraordinary in . . . perfectly normal ways. A law student with a bright future ahead of him. They fell in love. Eventually, they got married.

  “And perhaps if Elizabeth had kept her gifts hidden, they would have lived a perfectly normal life. But she . . . encountered young psychics, lost and afraid, who needed a teacher. So she became that.”

  Grim, Murphy said, “And landed back on their radar.”

  “She was married to Brodie, living a normal life. I suppose she thought they’d forgotten about her. That her normal life, her marriage, protected her. Until Eliot Wolfe sat down across from her at a sidewalk café where she waited to meet Brodie. Until he told her very reasonably that she was meant for him, that they were a genetic match, fated to be together.”

  Murphy drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose she told him about Brodie and he didn’t care.”

  “Pretty much. He finally left after telling her again that they would be together, no matter how much she protested or how far she ran. She was spooked, unsettled. Finally left the café for a shortcut, hoping to meet Brodie quicker. And I suppose she must have convinced Wolfe, earlier, that she’d never belong to him, because when she saw him, he had a gun. And he shot her.”

  Murphy nodded slowly. “Shot her—and disappeared again. I read the reports. There were no witnesses able to describe the shooter. No one even remembered seeing a man sitting with her at the café—however he pulled that off. No evidence. He’d even used a revolver, so there was no shell casing. Brodie got there just in time to hold his dying wife for a minute or two. And then she was gone.”

  Tasha was silent for a moment, then said steadily, “We’d just eaten breakfast this morning, when I got up—and saw what was on TV. A campaign ad. For lieutenant governor of the state. And it was Eliot Wolfe. I wish I could think it was a different Eliot Wolfe, but as soon as I saw him, I knew it was him. He’s even having a fund-raiser here in the city in about two weeks.”

  “Shit,” Murphy said. “We definitely have a problem.”

  “I’ve managed to shut Brodie out this morning,” Tasha said, still steady. “But he knows something’s wrong. And I don’t know how long I can keep the truth from him. Or even if I should.”

  “If he knows, he’ll kill Wolfe.”

  “Yes. Kill the murderer of his wife. Kill an enemy from the other side who has political aspirations. Kill a born psychic who, if he hasn’t already, is certainly going to be matched again with a female born psychic.”

  Murphy swore, this time under her breath. “You think it might be you?”

  “I think it’s a good reason for them to have not grabbed me. To be watching me, but not moving against me. To have this weird and you guys say unusual web of watchers all around me. I am a born psychic, able to control my abilities quite well in public. A trait necessary, I would think, for a political wife. Want to bet I get an invitation to that fund-raiser of his?”

  After a moment, Murphy said, “How long do you think you can keep Brodie out?”

  “I . . . have no idea. I feel guilty keeping him out now. He has a right to know who murdered his wife. He’s spent ten years living with not knowing. Not having any justice for her.”

  Slowly, Murphy said, “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. Hell, I even agree with you now. But you tell Brodie, and then what? There’s no way to arrest a man for murder with no evidence against him. Brodie goes after a candidate for lieutenant governor, kills him—and goes to prison for murder. Or worse. South Carolina has the death penalty.”

  Tasha opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Murphy was nodding. “There were no witnesses. No evidence. And I’m willing to bet Wolfe will have an alibi that places him far from where Elizabeth was killed. Because Duran doesn’t take chances.”

  “Would he have known?”

  “I don’t know if he knew ahead of time; at least a few of his soldiers have shown flashes of temper or ambition during which they acted more or less on their own. Those I know of vanished afterward and haven’t been seen since.” She frowned. “For Wolfe to have killed a born psychic, one their organization had apparently been grooming since childhood . . . I don’t know how he does that and lives.”

  “Maybe Duran doesn’t know.”

  Murphy’s smile twisted. “I’ve learned the hard way to always err on the side of Duran knowing most everything I don’t want him to know.”

  “Brodie said Duran has bosses. That he answers to someone. Maybe it wasn’t his decision to make. If he knows, if they know, Wolfe must have more value to them alive than dead, no matter what he’s done.”

  “As a born psychic, that’s probably true. None of Duran’s soldiers read as psychic, and yet we know he values psychics. Getting a psychic under his control placed high in a state government, his feet on the political path to even greater things, could be a feather in Duran’s cap. Whatever happened in the past, he must feel he can control Wolfe now. Maybe because of what happened in the past. He’s ruthless enough to use knowledge he has to keep that control—and follow Wolfe up the political ladder as far as he can possibly go.”

  “Then . . . he has to be confident Brodie can never find out who killed his wife. He’d never risk putting Wolfe in such a bright public spotlight if he thought someone, anyone, might be able to place him at the scene of that murder. Even a claim he was there, a suspicion, could completely derail any political career.”

  “He may have been confident of that when he settled his web all around you. Even when he decided to test you in that maze of his. But when you emerged stronger—and connected to Brodie—he had to know all bets were off.”

  “But a connection to Brodie would only tell me what Brodie knew; how could that threaten Duran when it never has?”

  “I don’t know. But what I do know is that Duran and his people have been studying psychics for a long, long time. I believe they know more about psychic abilities than we do. So even though we don’t understand how it’s possible, maybe Duran knows that a connection between you and Brodie . . . opens other doors.”

  “That’s all I need. Other doors in my mind.” She frowned. “Are you saying one of them let Elizabeth in?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible. Maybe even likely. Especially since the only mediumistic experience you’ve ever had happened right after you made that connection with Brodie.”

  Tasha wasn’t at all sure how to deal with that. “Even if that’s true, how could Duran have known I’d have a visit from the spirit of Elizabeth Brodie?”

  “I don’t know. Are you sure that’s what it was?”

  “You’re the one who talked about more doors.” Tasha con
sidered for only a moment. “I’m not a medium, but she was there. She told me their whole story. She also told me . . . not to tell Brodie. Not yet. She said I’d know when it was the right time.”

  “But you have no idea?”

  “No. I just . . . I don’t feel this is the right time. As you said, no evidence against Wolfe, and I’m reasonably certain Brodie wouldn’t care.”

  “Definitely wouldn’t care,” Murphy murmured. “I mean, even though he trained as a lawyer, not having evidence against Wolfe wouldn’t stop him, not if he was convinced the man killed his wife.”

  “And I could convince him.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m more than reasonably sure you could.”

  —

  Murphy, you guys need to come here.

  Now? Bad timing.

  Can’t be helped. Things you need to know.

  Tasha’s parentage?

  Yes. And more. Much, much more.

  Only the gist came through, but that was more than enough.

  Murphy straightened up in her chair and let out a short breath that was more than a sigh. “Okay. Let’s not tell him then. Not now. Not till this is wrapped up and you’re safe.” She lifted a hand when Tasha would have spoken. “Or until your instincts tell you it’s time. I respect instincts, Tasha. Listen to yours. Okay?”

  Because there was nothing else she could do, Tasha nodded.

  Murphy turned her head and made a slight gesture that Brodie, though out of hearing range, could easily see. He joined them at the small sidewalk table.

  “Do I get let in on the secret?” he demanded.

  Murphy smiled at him, and Tasha got the sudden sense that between these two was a prickly, interesting friendship, part siblings and part comrades in arms.

  “No,” she answered simply. Then she looked at Tasha, and her smile faded. “Though I’m afraid you may be in for a shock. And, honestly, I don’t know how to soften the blow.”

  “I think I’m a bit numb,” Tasha confessed. “So, go ahead.”