TL Schaefer Works in Progress
Duck and Run : View to a Kill: Live and Let Die
Chapter 1
There were better ways to end the week, Christine Eagen was sure of it. She slouched in the leather bucket seat of her SUV, eyes locked on the champagne-colored Camry parked nose-out in the driveway, ignoring the seedy Oklahoma City neighborhood surrounding her. Cars leaned drunkenly on jacks, missing tires and more, sitting next to dilapidated refrigerators amid a scattering of dirty Big Wheels and Easy Bake Ovens.
Above it all, dark clouds growled beneath a marshmallow-like cumulous swell that soared into the heavens.
Chris had lived in Oklahoma long enough to know what could be developing in those towering clouds. A tornado. Gusting wind brought the scent and taste of rain colored by the burn of ozone through the open window...a sure sign of coming lightning and maybe more.
It was early May, and the dangerous combination of cloud formations was not a good omen. Especially at ten o’clock in the morning, with high humidity and a temperature already close to the eighties.
But it wasn’t the weather that was making her cranky.
She thumped the steering wheel in protest. This should have been an easy job. The Camry was perfectly positioned for a quick take, and no-one in this ‘hood, with the exception of the owner, would ever look twice if she drove it away. If not for James’ hangover, they could’ve had the car out of there within minutes. But no, her partner in crime couldn’t be bothered with work today, even though they’d powered down the same amount of beer the night before at O’Malley’s.
She shook her head, mentally banishing the last vestiges of her own headache and focused back on the job at hand and her obsession with this one particular car.
She could be in that car and headed down the road in about a minute flat, but there was no way she was leaving the truck in this area. She’d get a royal butt-chewing from her boss, Rod, if one of his trucks turned up on a hot sheet. Pissing Rod off was a dangerous occupation. More dangerous than her days as a Ranger, that much was certain.
Chris thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel and contemplated the Camry, ignoring the bead of sweat that crept down her cheek.
“Ah, to hell with it.” There was no way she was letting this one go. She rolled up the window, snagged the remote control to the yard’s garage from the visor, and pushed open the door of the Explorer. Thumbing the electronic lock, she walked purposefully down the street, like she had every right in being there. Pulling the picks out two strides from the car, she bent over the door, body shielding her actions from the house. She had to do this fast, right, and with the least amount of bloodshed.
With a few deft twists of her wrists, she was inside in under a minute. She settled into the leather seat and closed the door softly, then hunched down below the headrest and leaned forward, picks in the ignition.
The Camry started with an almost-soundless purr.
Damn, but she loved people who took care of their cars. No coughing roar to announce her presence, no backfiring, none of those things that would make her a target in a shooting gallery.
She pulled out of the driveway smoothly, a surge of adrenaline shooting through her, just like it always did. There was nothing better than this, not even slapping the cuffs on an obnoxious SOB who deserved it.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the sign for the interstate flashed past, and veered up the onramp.
She’d made it, one more time.
Reaching down, she fiddled with the radio dial, tuning out the obnoxious ‘alternative’ music and dialing in the classic country station, and settled in for the ten-minute drive to the yard.
Traffic was light, as one would expect on a sultry Sunday morning. The freeway crept up toward the interchange, lifting drivers twenty-five feet above hard-packed earth below.
Chris sang along with Merle Haggard and eyed the storm clouds looming ominously overhead. She might have just enough time to get back to her truck before the leading edge of the front hit. With any kind of luck she could have it garaged before any serious weather, namely hail, struck.
The first impact shocked her, sending shudders through the steering wheel and the frame of the car. The second sent her careening helplessly into the guardrail. She shot a lightning-quick glance to her right, taking in the big navy blue Lincoln that paced her, filing away the tinted windows that obscured the driver.
Danger! Her subconscious screamed at her, while her rational mind tried to pawn it off as a driver who’d had one too many mimosas with brunch.
Whoever the driver was, there was no way in hell she was sticking around to find out. She fought against the steering wheel, pulling it hard to the left, and gunned the accelerator, sliding in front of the sedan.
The screech of tearing metal shivered down her spine, as harsh as fingernails on a chalkboard. She took the Interstate 40 off ramp at eighty, almost airborne as she hit the soft corner clearly marked forty-five miles per hour.
Executing the merge seamlessly, she glanced in the rearview mirror, not terribly surprised to see the chromed grill of the behemoth filling it.
Damn. She knew picking up this skip was too easy, and now she had more than one problem. She could make the yard safely. Her years as a Texas Ranger had taught her a thing or two about defensive and offensive driving, but it was the damage to the car that worried her the most. Rod would have an awe-inspiring conniption over the trashed car.
She wove in and out of traffic, staying just ahead of the Lincoln until she was almost abreast of her exit. Shooting across all four lanes, she took the off ramp at sixty and barreled through the yield sign at the bottom of the hill.
Where was a cop when you needed one?
The chain-link fence of the yard, topped with wicked strands of barbed wire, loomed just ahead. Slamming on the brakes, she fishtailed into the parking lot, spitting up gravel, and hit the remote.
She slid under the rising metal with inches to spare, and then punched the remote again, breathing a sigh of relief as the door began its downward descent, settling into its steel-reinforced tracks with an authoritative thump, shielding her from her pursuers.
Chris thanked God that Rod was paranoid enough to spare no expense when it came to safeguarding his repossessions. It had saved her bacon, once again. There was no way anyone was getting into the garage unless they knew the combination to the cipher-locked side door or had a remote.
She sat in the Camry for a few long moments, letting the shakes overtake her. Sweat soaked her tee shirt and pearled on her forehead, sliding down her face. She pulled off her Oklahoma State ball cap, running trembling fingers through soaked bangs. She loved the adrenaline rush of the chase, but the aftermath always got to her.
Blowing out a breath, she pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed the dispatcher’s office. Karla, their seen-it-all and done-it-twice dispatcher, needed to know about her close call and the idiots who’d tailed her. You just never knew when a skip might get pushy, or even worse, violent.
Once again, Rod’s faith, or lack of it, in his fellow man had served them well. The dispatcher’s office was locked, protected by bulletproof glass. Just like the garage, the only way in was if someone let you in, or you knew the combination to the cipher lock.
The phone rang, and then rang again, with no answer.
Concerned, Chris opened the Camry’s door and stood on shaky legs. She walked to the ‘people door’ and looked out the mesh-reinforced glass.
The Lincoln sat in front of the garage’s bay door, blocking her exit. Two exceedingly tough-looking men lounged against the hood, looking right at her, even though she knew they couldn’t see her through the smoked glass. Another sauntered toward the dispatcher’s office, making no pains at hurrying.
Warning bells chimed in her head. These guys didn’t act like normal skips. They were entirely too assured, too confident. What the hell was going on?
She was settling in to watch them, to figure out her options, when the unmistakable snick of the trunk popping open yanked her attention from the door.
The champagne-colored lid of the trunk swung up slowly, as if propelled by an unseen, ghostly hand.
***
Nick McClain hit the emergency release in the trunk of the Camry and held his breath. He didn’t know where in the hell he was, but knew it wasn’t where he needed to be. The way his luck had been running, he was probably right back in Tulsa, the victim of some vicious time-space warp.
To make a bad situation even worse, the demolition-derby pounding his body had taken in the last ten minutes had only compounded the beating he’d sustained less than an hour ago.
His whole body felt like one big bruise, although it looked worse than it actually was. He’d made sure his cries of pain had convinced his attackers of their skill in roughing up weenies.
Going into this assignment with guns blazing would have compromised everything they’d worked so hard for, but it would have been preferable to getting the shit beaten out of him.
And right now he was in a situation he liked even less, because he wasn’t in control. At least not yet.
He lifted his head cautiously and found himself staring into the biggest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen. Definitely not the bruisers he’d expected, and almost wanted, in a perverse way, to see.
He allowed himself to wonder who she was, then immediately dismissed the thought.
Who she was didn’t matter, not in the big picture.
The men he was after didn’t use women, or at least they hadn’t in the past. Regardless of who she was, he knew what she was, without even thinking twice.
A problem. A complication he didn’t need on this job.
So how could he turn her to his advantage? Coming out of this situation in one piece had been looking pretty dicey up until this point. He was so deep undercover he didn’t even have backup. With that thought, he slid into character.
Sitting up with an exaggerated groan, Nick accepted the hand, strong-fingered and callused, that reached in to help him out of the trunk. A surge of something, hot and primal and dark, surged between him and his rescuer, and then her hand was gone. He heard the slither of metal on metal, but focused on getting his feet planted solidly on terra firma before he raised his eyes.
Damn, he missed his solid, anti-slip crepe-soled shoes. But in keeping with his cover, he’d been forced to wear freakin’ tasseled loafers. He decided to blame the spark of electricity on the weather and his ride in the trunk, rather than the woman standing in front of him.
The owner of the big baby blues was tiny, but with the leanness of an athlete. An athlete that filled out her faded jeans and white tee shirt nicely. Quite nicely.
She held a tire iron in one hand, feet spread wide and solid as she looked at him contemplatively. In that moment, he knew he had to be losing it, because he’d never seen a woman look sexier, even if she was threatening him with bodily harm.
Long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, bangs splayed up almost ridiculously, held in the vertical position by the sweat that soaked her brow. A sweaty red horizontal line bisected her forehead, and for a moment he wondered what had put it there, and then realized it was probably from a ball cap. For some perverse reason, that amused him greatly. He fought to keep a grin from surfacing.
When she spoke, he almost lost his inner war. Her no-shit tone gave him no reason to doubt that, despite size, she could do whatever she wanted to with that tire iron.
“And who in the hell might you be?”
Maybe it was time to reconsider the ground rules.
Chapter One
Before
It was a picture-perfect Christmas card photo. The building sat atop a high hill like a dowager queen, overseeing sweeping valleys and snow-tinged pines. The fact I was so scared I’d almost peed my pants wasn’t lost on Mother. I knew, through some weird sixth sense, what was coming as soon as she opened the car door. She’d been too nice to me the last day or so. My shabby suitcase sat on the backseat alone, no luggage of hers accompanying it.
We weren’t going to the orphanage she’d threatened me with so often, or even an adoption agency. No, this was something different, something dreadful. And as much as I was frightened, a tiny part of me had to wonder how anything could possibly be as bad as the life I’d led to this point.
The battered old car wheezed to a stop in front of imposing double doors. Even at fourteen, I realized the folly of trying to run. The last building had been miles back, and we’d passed through a set of formidable gates flanked by a fence that loomed tall and stark and menacing against the new snow.
Standing at the door was a spindly looking academic—stereotypic right down to the lab coat and pocket protector. Dr. Green, Psychiatrist, his name badge proudly proclaimed.
He was all smiles; comforting to my mother, careful of me. Sanctimonious prick. Yeah, even at my age, I knew those words…and exactly what they meant. Thank my ever-revolving host of “uncles” for that.
As soon as Mother left, Dr. Green showed me to my room, which was nothing more than a glorified cell. He was a talker, loved the sound of his own voice.
He told me of the progress we’d make with my delusions, that with therapy and lots of psychotropic meds, I’d soon be as normal as any other teenager. And I’d have the Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect (CASI for short, he informed me pompously) to thank for it.
And then he left me alone. All alone in that cold, dark little room, and for the first time in my young life, I seriously contemplated suicide. Because regardless of my earlier thoughts, I was sure this new life would be worse than anything I’d ever imagined. Somehow, some way, I made it through the night, and when morning came, my two years in Hell began.
Now
Tuesday, 10:30 pm
I walked quickly down the filthy South Side alleyway, trying not to breathe too deeply. The scent of urine, spilled beer and marijuana permeated the air, and it took everything in me not to gag.
I didn’t because I’m a professional, and I’d seen and lived through worse. Much worse.
My pace slowed as I approached the yellow crime scene tape fluttering feebly in the sweltering, almost-midnight breeze. I took a deep, tainted breath and slid my tinted glasses off slowly, wincing mentally before the scene had even fully unfolded before my unguarded gaze.
Pure sensation arrowed through me, shooting intense pain through my skull before settling into a low throb that pounded behind my eyes, making me close them in reflex. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
“You okay, Sara?” The low, concerned voice came from my left and belonged to Officer Juan Alvarez, the uniform who’d been first on scene.
I gave him a grunt for an answer, and prepared myself for what I would see when I opened my eyes again. I whispered a low prayer that it wouldn’t be as bad as my initial impression, then took the plunge.
As crime scenes go, this one was no better or worse than the hundreds of others I’d visited over my ten-year career as a photographer. At least not on the surface. Beneath it was a whole ‘nother story.
My stomach rolled as my brain tried to process the lust, hatred and terror imprinted on the next dimension. Sights and sensations only I could see and feel. It was my gift, my curse.
The victim lay naked in the back doorway of a bar that had seen better days, sprawled in a graceless heap, arms and legs askew. Vivid scarlet seeped from the gaping knife wound that decorated his neck like a gruesome Valentine’s Day tie. His clothes were folded at his feet in a neat pile, designer dress shoes set tidily on top.
As suddenly and overwhelmingly as The Sight had overtaken my senses, it retreated into a low, almost-nauseating sensation that slid sinuous and shark-like through my senses, that I could taste at the back of my throat.
I pushed the discomfort away, like always, and concentrated on the reality moving, living and breathing around me.
Unseasonable springtime heat blasted off the asphalt and even at ten-thirty, I could feel sweat rolling down my back, soaking my t-shirt. Uniforms and a few plainclothes detectives walked back and forth, cracking jokes. Their morbid humor had pissed me off once upon a time, when I was young and inexperienced. Now I recognized it for what it was…a defense mechanism. I could appreciate that, if nothing else.
At twenty-seven, I’d been shooting crime scenes for almost ten years. You might think that’s way too young to stomach the sights and sounds of death, but I’ve been around it far too long to flinch. Much.
I ducked beneath the tape and set myself up for the first shot. Drawing a great shuddering breath, I raised the Nikon to my eye. I could just as easily take the pictures using the two-by-two inch screen in the body of the digital camera, but that wouldn’t mute the scene the way I needed. Staring through the viewfinder reduced the world to two dimensions, diluting the fourth that had haunted me since childhood.
I snapped the first photo, falling into the clinical detachment that had served me so well since the day I discovered the distance a camera could give me. It was with that detachment I saw the victim had been handsome--strikingly so--with a toned, muscular body and pampered hands. How had he ended up here, in the worst part of Dallas? Had he been hunting drugs or “companionship” and found more than he bargained for? Namely, trouble of the worst kind.
I walked around the body carefully, my feet moving of their own volition. I’d shot so many vics before that I knew the drill, knew instinctively where I could and couldn’t step in order to preserve the crime scene.
Through the camera, details became vividly clear. The clothes folded at the victim’s feet were pricey…too pricey for this kind of neighborhood. The impression of a rich man’s body was confirmed, as was my initial impression he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d’ve had pity for him, if he hadn’t put himself in the position in the first place. I had no doubt he’d been here willingly. There was no sign of a struggle, no bruises at his wrists or ankles, no hint of a binding of any sort. His face was peaceful, as if he’d simply gone to sleep, with not a hint of horror or pain. The dichotomy of the brutality of the crime and the expression on the vic’s face, the obvious, sprawled positioning of his body, careened through me. This was wrong, so very wrong.
When I finally lowered the camera, my heartbeat now ratcheted back to relatively normal, one thing struck me again, and it was as bright as a neon sign. And now that my paying job was complete, I could concentrate on the unsettling vision my “gift” afforded me.
The victim’s aura, in direct opposition to his facial expression, screamed of a panic so excruciating it flashed me back ten years, to a place I’d locked away years ago. Gorge rose in my throat. I hadn’t barfed at a crime scene since that first year, and I wouldn’t do it now.
I forced my attention away from the victim, and focused on his murderer. Anything had to be better than feeling the vic’s terror roll through me as sure as the tides. I was wrong.
The killer had left his signature, a thick, viscous smear of purple that hovered in the air, an exclamation point of rage and perversion that faded as it meandered lazily toward the street. He hadn’t worried about being caught at the scene. His aura was too smug, even as it was tainted by an anger so intense it made my breath catch.
In my gut I knew what I couldn’t tell the cops. This perp had killed before--and would again. The sonofabitch liked it.
I slid my tinted glasses on again and everything faded back to normalcy.
Sometimes being gifted with The Sight is a good thing. Most of the time it’s a bitch. This was one of those times.
***
An hour after I left the crime scene, I kicked my front door shut behind me, took off my glasses and let The Sight unfold. The loft was just as I’d left it, warm and inviting, with no additional human auras polluting the atmosphere. In my line of work, a girl could never be too careful. After all, lots of perps didn’t distinguish between badge- and piece-carrying cops and independents like me. If you were on the other side of the crime tape, you were a cop. Ergo, you were a target.
The stills I’d taken of the job were now safe and sound at the precinct, ready for the Homicide dicks to do their magic. For the sake of the victim—and his family—I hoped they found the perp quickly. The killer had exuded a sense of malevolence that still sent a shudder through me.
I shook off the evening’s events and focused on the here and now, on the safety and security of coming home. And as I did, the tap of claws on the parquet floor preceded my furry roommate.
I carefully set the Nikon down, then crouched and waited for the Shih Tzu whirlwind that was Xena as she launched herself into my arms. She smothered my face in doggie kisses as she wiggled.
I know, a Shih Tzu is such a girly dog, but hey, what can I say, I’m a girl, and the pooch gives me unconditional love. And on the plus side, domestic animals in general don’t give off an aura except one of love. I’d rescued her from an animal shelter only a few hours before she was to be put down. Don’t ask me what drew me to the SPCA that day, it’s not like I was looking for a companion, but I found one, nonetheless. Maybe it was two lost souls calling to one another. All I know is that I’m damned glad we found each other in time.
Tucking her under one arm, I rose and tossed my keys and glasses onto the hallway table, then worked the kinks out of my shoulders and neck with a slow roll before heading into the living area. As always, I let the peace and tranquility of my personal haven wash over me. There was just something about coming home to a place that was yours. And this loft was most definitely mine, bought and paid for.
But as much as my space soothed me, as much as I’d tried to shake them off, tonight’s events clung to me like the greasy sweat that follows a nightmare. The aura I’d seen, as well as the crime scene itself, bothered me on an elemental level. What bugged me even more was that I couldn’t shut it out. Usually I left the ugliness I saw far too often at my front door, but tonight’s work left me feeling flustered and off balance.
I walked into the kitchen, fed Xena a late-night snack and poured myself a glass of wine. The Merlot slipped down my throat nicely, and complemented the bluesy Robert Cray that slid from the speakers as I turned on the stereo.
Right now I needed the distraction…using my three favorite vices. Wine, good music and nicotine. I thumped down into the leather armchair positioned in front of the big picture window, lit a cigarette and stared into the lamplit heart of one of the funkiest neighborhoods in Dallas, Deep Ellum. My second-floor loft had been a steal back in the day, when I’d been looking for a place to hole up and forget. Now the area had undergone a cultural rebirth, and esoteric ethnic restaurants and shops lined the street. Having my ‘hood “revitalized” had grated some, but after awhile I got used to it, and the folks who hung out in the neighborhood were just odd enough for me to blend in seamlessly.
Xena finished her snack and hopped on my lap, turned twice and settled in for some loving. My fingers absently stroked her silky black-and-white coat as I wondered what, if anything, to do about what I’d seen today.
I’d been able to steer the “real” cops in the right direction more than once with a well-placed, careful word, but there was nothing I could say about this case that wouldn’t raise eyebrows.
I liked the anonymity of my job, the freelance hours, everything but the actual staring-at-dead-people part. But it wasn’t like there was much else I could do that would give me the things I liked and still generate a paycheck that kept me in my happy place. And the pay was good…really good. Especially since I’d sunk the majority of my readily available cash into the loft years ago, and now lived quite comfortably without a mortgage hovering over my head.
Because of that, and the fact I wasn’t overly fond of sticking my neck out for anyone, I was put in a real quandary over tonight’s events.
I’ve had The Sight for as long as I can remember, and if anyone ever asked me, I’d be pretty honest in telling them how much it’s fucked me up. Not that anyone ever has, mind you. It’s not like I can drop into my local shrink’s office, tell him (or her) that I see things other people don’t, and expect to walk away without a heavy dosage of something mind-altering. Been there, done that, don’t want to do it again.
The Sight is complicated and utterly simple at the same time. I’ve been told what I see is the fourth dimension. Not as cool as you might think, trust me. If I knew what the real world looked like, I could probably make a comparison, but all I’ve ever known is the super-vivid world I live in, even with my glasses. It’s especially bad when it’s my time of the month. Must be a hormonal thing. I’ve learned to control how much I see a majority of the time. Most people exude an aura...just enough for me to see what kind of person they are, what they’ve done recently, that sort of thing. When they’re right in front of me, their aura surrounds them like a corona. Lots of times, like tonight, it lingered.
Remember that old adage…the eyes are the windows to the soul? Not so far off, my friend. I can tell what you’re feeling, just by meeting your gaze. Not exactly what you’re thinking, but the two aren’t very far off.
I had special glasses made years ago by an optometrist who didn’t ask questions. Contacts don’t work for some reason, so the ones I wear do nothing more than mask the unusual, true turquoise color of my eyes. Most women pay excellent bank for contacts that color, but I’ve chosen to fly below everyone’s radar for over a decade, with good reason. Hence the contacts and my sorta-shades.
The glasses worked like my camera’s viewfinder, paring the world down to three dimensions, making my vision almost as normal as anyone else’s. Until I take them off. I can get along without the glasses, but why should I? I may be unconventional, but a masochist I’m not.
Tonight’s activities were a great example of my intrinsic self-preservation gene. Every once in a while I run into someone who’s truly extraordinary. Like tonight’s baddie. I’d never seen a shade of purple that vivid before, never experienced the churning in my gut that signified seriously bad ju-ju. His signature had sucker punched me, even though I’d known it was coming. More than anything, the anticipation I’d glimpsed, the pleasure he found in his evil, gave me the shivers. It was an echo of familiarity from my past that I wasn’t touching with a ten-foot pole.
It was because of people like him I’d had the glasses made, and sometimes because I saw the shadows of things hovering just on the periphery that I really didn’t want to know about. Getting people’s auras and their feelings is quite enough, thank you very much.
To be honest, I guess The Sight does help me out at crime scenes, because I can see more than the normal schmo, but I could definitely live without it. Maybe not without the paycheck, though.
Nowadays, crime scene investigators shoot most everything, but I’d been around for a long time, and the precinct captain trusted me, so the crime scene techs were stuck with me. It pissed them off at first, but after awhile they realized that having me there gave them more time to tackle the nine million other things that needing doing, and left me alone. All except Hiram Johnson. The twenty-year veteran and Department Chief had hated me on first sight and took every chance to pick apart my work and tear me down. He didn’t have much to work with, because--all modesty aside--I shot a damned fine crime scene. Flawless, in fact, so I could deal with Hiram; I think I scared him, for some reason. And that was perfectly all right…there’s always one piker in the bunch, and I didn’t let it bother me overmuch. As long as the rest let me be, it was copasetic.
*
I took another sip of wine, and Xena used that opportunity to scramble off my lap. The little dog stared up at me and whimpered.
“Okay, peeing machine, I hear you.” I stood, plopped my wine on a side table, ground out my smoke and headed for the door and her leash. She scampered in front of me, tail waving like a flag, and her antics made me smile. If nothing else, she was good at that.
I clipped the leash to her collar, slipped on my glasses, opened the door and had started down the stairs when I heard someone opening the street-level door. The downstairs tenant—an absentminded ex-hippie who made and sold jewelry from her storefront--must have left it unlocked after I came home. Either that or the damned lock was broken again.
Apprehension slithered up my spine. My place was the only dwelling upstairs, so whoever stood in the doorway had to be here for me, given the late hour. Not many people knew I lived here, and even my precinct overlord, Captain Davis, didn’t bother me after a particularly gruesome shoot. He wasn’t exactly a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy, but had taken me under his wing when he was still a homicide dick. He popped by every once in awhile, but never this late, and he always rang the street-level buzzer. So, if it wasn’t Davis, then who was darkening my doorway?
Whoever it was, they were big; I could tell by the creak of the old stairs as body mass hit each tread. A beat of unreasonable panic fluttered through me. Even if this wasn’t the greatest of neighborhoods, I’d never been afraid before.
Since fear had been such a huge part of my childhood, I tended to heed my intuition. Right now it screamed for me to get my happy ass back in the house. I turned to the door and had just begun inserting the keys to let myself in when a rough, thoroughly masculine voice hailed me.
“Sara Covington?”
I left my keys hanging from the door, and turned on my heel, my fight-or-flight instinct shifting to the first with a surge of adrenaline that had my pulse spiking. I slid my right hand into my pocket and pulled out my trusty switchblade, opening it with a deadly snick before laying it next to my thigh. The element of surprise could be a girl’s best friend, and I’ve yet to find a man who expects someone like me to carry a blade.
Then I got a good look at my nocturnal visitor and realized how futile the gesture was. This dude, whoever he was, was huge, filling the narrow stairwell with the width of his shoulders, his head almost brushing the low ceiling. I was dead meat if he wanted to hurt me. Even a blade wouldn’t slow this guy down.
Xena yipped happily and darted forward to gnaw on his shoelace. He danced back less than gracefully and swore as he almost fell down the stairs. I struggled--and failed--to hide a relieved grin. I didn’t think I was in much danger from a man pushed back by a ten-pound ball of fluff…and one on a leash, no less. What the hell he wanted was a whole different concern.
I retracted the blade and tucked it in my pocket.
“Call your…whatever it is…off.” Now he sounded pissed, and my grin became a full-fledged smile.
“Xena, c’mere.” She dutifully scampered back and seated herself at my feet, then set to work on my shoes. “She’s harmless; she just wanted to love up your shoes.”
“Whatever.”
His words were dismissive, and automatically put my back up. Love my dog and you’ll get points. Diss her and it’s all over but the shouting.
“Sara Covington?” He asked again as he stepped forward, into the light. The sight of his face made me lose my breath. Sharp, angular features dominated, softened by a mouth that could only be described as carnal. His eyes were slate-blue and burned with a zeal I’d call possessed, if I knew him better. Dark, too-long hair brushed the collar of his starched white shirt. And the body that had been hidden by the darkness was just as powerful as it had sounded coming up the stairs, even camouflaged by a boring off-the-rack navy suit.
All in all it was a pretty damned arresting package, one that would have made me take a second, and then a third look if I’d passed him on the street. It was that quick surge of attraction that made me go against everything I’d taught myself over the last ten years.
I tipped my glasses down to get a read on him and was shocked speechless. He exuded absolutely nothing whatsoever. I’d never met anyone without an aura, and it scared me again, more than a little. With everyone else I read, I knew what I was dealing with, but with him…nada.
He’d drawn back into the stairwell, leaving the upper part of his face in the shadows, and me clueless about what he was thinking. Damn it, I needed to see his eyes.
I drew up and squared my shoulders. I’m tall for a girl, at five-ten, but next to him I felt tiny. “Who’s asking?” Thank goodness my voice didn’t waver.
He reached into his coat and I stiffened while I cast my eyes right and left, deciding which way to dive, more than pissed off at myself that I’d misjudged him. If this guy was gonna shoot me, I’d at least go down fighting.
When his hand emerged, it wasn’t a handgun or blade he held, but a shiny gold shield. “Detective Brian Roney.”
I should have known. “I’m Sara Covington. What do you want?” I didn’t bother to make my reply polite. While I worked with cops almost every day, that didn’t mean I liked having my privacy violated. Or having the crap scared out of me. Guns were not big on my list of things to be around. Yeah, they were part of my everyday life, but I don’t have to like it.
“I wanted to talk to you about the scene you shot tonight.”
Damned if his gravelly voice wasn’t doing stupid, girly things to my insides. I pushed those feelings aside, even as I wondered where he was from…certainly not Dallas. Maybe California or Oregon. It was the non-accent that threw me. And I still couldn’t get a read on his eyes.
“I downloaded the stills before I left the station. What more do you need?”
He hummed quietly, managing to make it sound long-suffering. “Just humor me on this, all right?”
Xena whined at my feet. “Fine, we can talk while I walk the dog.” No way was I letting this bozo into my place. The loft was my sanctuary, and I didn’t need anyone screwing up the karmic balance.
“That,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Xena, “is not a dog. It’s a rat with hair.” And then he turned and walked down the stairs.
I pushed my glasses back up, yanked my keys from the door and followed, with a lunging, cheerful Xena tugging at the leash. When we hit the dimly-lit street, I addressed him.
“Don’t quote cheesy eighties movies and think you can get away with it.”
He looked genuinely puzzled, so I elaborated. “Ruthless People. Danny Devito, Bette Midler.” Still nothing, so I gave up. It wasn’t worth the argument. Apparently I was the only one in our little group with a fetish for the eighties. “Why are you here, Detective? Twelve-thirty on a Tuesday night isn’t exactly prime visiting hours.”
He shifted on the balls of his feet and tugged at the collar of his shirt, appearing truly uncomfortable for the first time in our short acquaintance. That, if nothing else, made me thaw marginally.
“What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential, got it?”
I flapped my free hand. “Whatever. Just get on with it. It’s been a long night so far.” I started walking toward the tiny pocket park around the corner so Xena could do her business. It still bugged me that I couldn’t see a thing about Brian Roney but the usual, the mundane.
He walked beside me, and I could tell he was checking his stride to keep pace with me. He cast a look over his shoulder, then sighed before he began.
“Tonight’s vic is a red ball. City Councilman Brock Williams.”
That took me aback. “What the hell was he doing in that neighborhood?”
The detective shook his head. “We don’t know…yet. One of the guys in the precinct said you’d come up with more than one good suggestion in the past, and I wanted to get your take on the situation.”
His comment brought me up short. Henderson, the admin weenie in charge of running the desk, was wagging his tongue again. Asshole. If he thought it would make my zipper any easier to lower, he was sorely mistaken…and I’d make sure he knew it the next time our paths crossed.
“Listen, I’m sorry you’ve got a hot case here, but you saw the stills. Dead pampered guy, crappy neighborhood, bloodthirsty killer. Not all that unusual in Dallas.” I tipped down my glasses again, trying unsuccessfully to meet his eyes as I attempted to pawn off my observations as nothing much to ponder. For him to have come to me was unorthodox, at best. The last thing I needed was word getting out that I was a psychic, and I got the distinct feeling he was operating under that impression. Or something sorely like it.
It didn’t matter how nonchalant I sounded, though; he honed in on something I’d said. “Pampered. What made you think that?”
“His hands. Good manicure. He had a gym body too, not something you’d get from outside labor.”
He stopped and laid a hand on my shoulder. His touch sent a low-voltage shudder through me. In a flash I saw us standing together under the dim light of a streetlamp, Xena squatting next to the curb, and the silvery corona of the fourth dimension around my body. My heart thumped unsteadily in my chest, and I drew in a shaky breath.
Apparently the thrum was a two-way sensation, because he jerked his fingers back and shook them gingerly. “Damned static electricity,” I heard him mutter.
It wasn’t any such thing, but I wasn’t going to correct him. Because in the moment he’d touched me, our eyes had met for a single searing second, and everything that made me a woman had gone on red alert. Yeah, because he about scorched my insides, but even more important, because I hadn’t been able to read his feelings…at all.
I dropped my gaze, and immediately felt the loss.
He was a Null, and the zing we’d both felt had been my Sight reaching out to touch him, and being rebuffed. I let myself be amazed for a scant second before forcing myself to act as if nothing had happened. But inside, I was rattled beyond reason.
“What was it that made you hunt me down? And why haven’t I seen you at the precinct? Or at a scene?”
He scrutinized me, those blue eyes crackling with sharp intelligence. “Just transferred in, and we haven’t drawn but one case together, and by then you were gone. As for the scene, something’s not right, but damned if I can figure out what it is.”
I digested his response, and it made sense, at least as much as any of this did. “I don’t know what to tell you. All I saw was a dead guy.” Yeah right. What I couldn’t figure out was what was bothering him. As a Null, there was no way he could have sensed anything amiss, at least not on the next dimension. Nulls, at least what I understood of them, were devoid of anything extrasensory…including intuition.
He was still looking at me, almost as if he was trying to decide if I was telling the truth. He knew something, or intuited it. Since the first was distinctly unlikely, it had to be the second…and how could that possibly be?
“You’re not being straight with me,” he stated baldly. “I don’t do lies well, know that right now.”
That put my back up, and I told myself it was because he pissed me off, not because I felt defensive.
Who the hell did this guy think he was? I wasn’t lying, not really, and it wasn’t as if I could tell him anything without sounding like a complete loon. “And I don’t do intrusion well, Detective,” I replied, very snarkily. “What is it you think I’m hiding? I’m a photographer, for God’s sake, not a cop.”
After a long, tension-filled minute of meeting my eyes, he shifted his gaze, his frustration evident. “Fine, Miss Covington, have it your way. But if you think of anything, please give me a call.” He dug around in his suit pocket and held out his business card.
“I can’t make any promises,” I told him, wondering why I wasn’t flat out telling him to go to hell.
Xena, having given up on the park, finished her business and proceeded to plop herself down on Roney’s Rockports with a little yip.
“I’m not asking for promises,” he replied with a sigh as he reached down and disengaged the dog carefully. “I’m looking for answers.”
Hah. He wanted answers, but I could guarantee he wouldn’t believe the ones I gave him. Because they only raised more questions, and because, in my experience, cops just didn’t buy what they couldn’t see, smell or touch. Especially a Null.
I watched him walk away with a long, loping stride that ate up the asphalt and admired the way his butt moved beneath the fabric of his slacks. He may be a confrontational prick, but he had a fine body.
***
There’s a whole lotta “research” out there about what aural colors mean…and most of it is bupkus. I’ve figured it out through trial and error, and by combining the colors with what the person is actually feeling.
But there’s a grain of truth to every misconception, and I’d made it a point to separate the nuggets out from the chaff. Everything I’d read suggested that someone with no aura was either dead or rapidly heading in that direction. Brian Roney struck me as not only vibrant, but shockingly so. His aura should have been a vivid sapphire blue or pulsing firehouse red. The fact he was willing to come to me, basically on intuition, told me something was either very wrong with my basic hypothesis on Nulls, or something was wrong with Roney. I figured it was six of one, half dozen of the other.
Because of that, I pulled up the Net and started poking around. But my online research session yielded little more information, and it frustrated the crap out of me, because nothing I’d read even remotely prepared me for meeting a Null in the flesh…especially one I was sexually attracted to. Oh, I could deny it all I wanted, but Detective Brian Roney’s touch had hit me in all the right places, places no man had ever really reached. Probably because I’d never even seen a Null, let alone had one lay a hand on me. Much less meet my eyes.
As much as I coveted the idea of having a big, sexy man like Roney touch more than my shoulder, he was a cop. The one person in the world I could never be with. They saw too much, asked too many questions. Working with them was one thing…sleeping with them was a whole different gig. Heck, even the dumb ones were smarter than your average bear.
Damn. Why couldn’t I have met an easy Null, like a cowboy or an accountant or a construction worker? Someone who’d take the gift of sex with no questions asked and be happy with it. Someone who’d take my looks at face value and just run with it?
I’ve been told I’m attractive, with long, straight black hair, hazel eyes and a decent figure, and if the way the new cops hit on me is any indication, the description is probably right, but when you’ve got The Sight, you learn that looks are not only deceiving, they can be downright deadly. Especially when you’ve been through what I have. So they don’t matter to me anymore.
Sleeping with a “regular” person was a disaster. It’s not like I can wear my glasses to block out their aura, and I’ve gotten to the point where I refuse to squinch my eyes shut so I won’t be bombarded. Feeling my partner’s emotion and sensations was almost worse…too much. Having to think about it that much took all of the joy out of the act itself anyway.
I sighed and swiveled away from my computer screen, rubbing my tired eyes. Looked like it was another night with my boyfriend-in-a-box, Jon (as in Bon Jovi).
Chapter One
I stepped out of the rental car and straightened the pencil-thin skirt and jacket I’d donned in deference to my cover. In my ten years with the Bureau, I’d never worn such a ridiculous get-up. My job as a cold case agent tended more toward slacks and flats or Rockports, not the pastel pink nightmare I was wearing or the ridiculous stilts I teetered on. I looked like a freakin’ brunette Barbie Doll. It was humiliating. Then again, this wasn’t an assignment. It was personal. Special Agent Arin Thomas was now, for all intents and purposes, Arin Thomas, Investigative Reporter. My skin crawled at the thought.
I looked up at the massive building looming over me and wondered what in the hell Wes Burke had gotten himself into before he’d taken his swan dive. The Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect looked as imposing as its name suggested. Hell, more so.
I pawned off the feeling that I was in someone’s crosshairs as nerves, even though I couldn’t quite shake it. As secretive as this school was, I couldn’t imagine they were protected by long guns. No, it was just nerves, brought on by the fact I wasn’t totally comfortable with what I was doing. Wes had been an acquaintance, but one I’d come to like, respect, even. I owed him a bit of my time, if nothing else.
But I had to wonder, as a trickle of sweat crept down my spine, if I wasn’t on a fool’s errand—or worse.
The double doors opened slowly, as if the sunny summer day was too much to take all at once. The man who stepped out made my breath clog in my lungs even as he raised my hackles. No man should be this beautiful.
Tall, with a runner’s build, he wore his blond hair too long for conventional purposes, the slightly curling ends brushing the collar of a pristine white polo shirt. His face was classically handsome, marred only by a scar that slashed beneath his left eye, arcing upward into his hairline. He was still too far away for me to see the color of his eyes, but I’d bet even money they were as arresting as the rest of him.
I stepped forward, hitching my stupid girly purse up on one shoulder, and climbed the marble steps, holding out my hand when I reached the top. In my heels I was an inch taller than him. Damn. So much for appearing harmless. “Arin Thomas, News Today,” I said, pasting a too-bright smile on my face. “I’d like to speak to the honcho in charge.”
He regarded my outstretched hand like it was a poisonous snake, then lifted his gaze. “Ms. Thomas,” he said, and it was easy to hear the curl of distaste in his words. His voice was tinged with a slight drawl. “I have nothing to say to the media.”
His eyes were a deep, rich chocolate brown. The contrast between his fair complexion and those eyes was stunning. But not stunning enough to make me forget why I was here.
I assumed the persona of every newsperson I’d ever met and rolled right over his objection. “So you’re Jonah Summers. Outstanding. I have a few questions for you.”
He looked past me, as if expecting to see a newsvan complete with cameraman lurking behind my SUV. The distaste I’d heard in his voice now crossed his handsome face. “And I have a standard answer. No comment. This is private property, and you’re trespassing. I suggest you leave before the police arrive.” He stepped back into the cool darkness of what looked like a foyer, pulling the door shut behind him.
I did what any self-respecting reporter would do and jammed the pointed toe of my stiletto into the rapidly diminishing crack.
“Just a few questions, really,” I wheedled in my best little-girl voice, hating myself a little even as I did it. No, it was more like me to flash my badge and get in their face. It’d worked damned well for me in the past.
The heavy door closed on my scantily-protected foot, making me yelp and jerk back less than gracefully. And from behind the door I heard a distinctly amused, distinctly male chuckle. Bastard.
Fine, he wanted to play that way? Let the games begin.
****
Back in my hotel room, I massaged my aching foot and reread the dossier I’d compiled on the Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect—CASI. A school for “gifted” children, even the Bureau information was thin—too thin, in my opinion. The Meece Foundation, its corporate front, was more fleshed out, but barely. The whole kit-and-caboodle was too sanitized for my taste.
Meece was run by ex-NSA operative Heath Farrell, and had been in operation for several decades. Interestingly, it was Farrell’s half-sister, Camille Pearce who held the purse strings to a massive family fortune. The Meece Foundation funding was placed in a protected trust, accessible only by Farrell. Which made me wonder what the family dynamics between Farrell and Pearce were. And what had made the patriarch of this whole endeavor, Hugh Meece, separate the two businesses. It might be a tax thing, but given how shadowy everything about this seemed, I seriously doubted it.
As for CASI, it had reopened it a year ago, and was now run by the very man who had damaged my damned foot. Jonah Summers. A Harvard-educated psychiatrist, despite the down-home drawl, he’d struck me as anything but a typical academic. There’d been something more primal about how he’d handled the whole girl-reporter scenario, and I knew I’d have to do better the next time we met. But damn, why did he have to look so good?
The school itself had apparently been in operation over a decade ago, but shut down suddenly, the reasons behind its closure hidden well and deeply. I’d have to put out some feelers and see what she could discover about that little mystery.
Nothing tied into the anonymous phone call I’d received, and at first blown off. After all, a lot of people knew I was less than satisfied with the Bureau’s explanation of Wes’ death, and I’d made more than a few enemies over my tenure as an agent. But once I started looking more deeply into those whispered words… “The information you seek is at the Colorado Institute for Superior Intelligence, Agent Thomas. You’ll find the truth about Wes Burke. He was a student there.”
Because I just can’t let something to once I get my teeth into it, I’d investigated and found, surprise of surprises, that Wes had died not too far away from the secretive school, and that was just too coincidental for my liking.
So now I had to formulate a different plan of attack, and sooner than later, because I was burning my vacation time on this.
****
I sat in my truck in front of CASI bright and early the next morning, wearing normal clothes this time. There was no way in hell I was doing a stakeout, even if it was totally obvious, in pantyhose and heels.
I can be just as much of a nuisance as the next person…heck, probably more, since working cold cases required a particular amount of doggedness. Okay, a good bit.
Unwrapping my artery-clogging egg-and-sausage breakfast biscuit, I perched on the hood of the truck and settled in. I gave it no more than half an hour before he was out here, cell phone in hand, the local PD on their way. And that was just fine with me; I could take care of the locals easily enough. It always amazed me how much cooperation a Bureau shield engendered.
Thirty minutes passed as I waited patiently. It was something I was particularly good at, even if it chafed at me. Then an hour was gone and still nothing. I dug around in my purse and pulled out my iPod, dialing it to my flavor of the week, The Georgia Satellites. The rockabilly tempo settled deep within me, recharging me from the inside out.
Hell, if nothing else, at least I was getting some primo relaxation time. Never mind that it had been forced upon me with a “use it or lose it” threat. My Bureau supervisor Ben Carruthers wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety. Along those lines, I knew he’d be less than pleased I was pursuing this, even if it was on my off time. Actually, he’d probably be mad as hell, considering the clout the folks running CASI and Meece seemed to carry.
At sixty-five minutes, Summers came out, but I was only half-right about his MO.
He walked casually to the SUV, phone nowhere in sight and made a show of studying first the truck, then me. His perusal was thorough, slow, as if he were sizing me up, and enjoying what he saw.
His eyes were hidden behind shades today, but that face was still just as gorgeous, just as dangerous to my hormones. I wondered, for a brief, impulsive moment, what he’d be like between the sheets. Spectacular, I’d bet. It was the runner’s build that gave me that impression. He’d last for hours.
His direct gaze lingered on me so long I felt myself stiffening up, regardless of my thoughts of just a few seconds ago, ready to turn the defensive into the offensive, when he blew everything to hell.
“What, exactly, do you want, Agent Thomas?”