Belonging to Taylor (9 page)

"D'you really think I'm good enough, Trevor?"

"You've got talent, Jess, real talent."

She smiled blindingly at him. "I'm glad you came here to belong to Taylor. I knew the mailman was. coming this morning before he came around the corner, and I passed Jamie the salt before she asked for it. I didn't think I was psychic at all until you came."

"Not everybody's psychic, Jess," he reminded gently. "I'm not."

"You're not?"

"No."

Jessie frowned at him. "You're sure?"

"Very sure," he answered, amused.

She gave him a rather odd look, he thought, but seemed to accept his assurances.

He wondered, though.

And Taylor ... Taylor. She grew more beautiful every time Trevor looked at her, her chestnut hair more vibrant, her candid blue eyes more vivid, her mismatched features more fascinating and alluring. She was intelligent, humorous, tolerant. She was, both ostensibly and actually, the briskly capable hub around which her peculiar family turned. Viewing her family with love and respect, she was nonetheless ruefully aware of their oddity and entirely tolerant of it. And she was the most honest woman he'd ever met.

He knew why men would be attracted to her; her beauty was certainly a part of it, but those eyes, those honest eyes ... and since he knew well that the intelligence of American men was at least equal to that of foreign ones, he didn't doubt that men had been following Taylor around for years. He wondered about those others but didn't ask. He felt no conceit in the sure knowledge that only male friends preceded him, but he felt a strong responsibility in the knowledge that he had the power to hurt her, and hurt her badly.

He didn't consider his careful guardedness as nobility. He knew only that until he was as sure as she was, their relationship would remain platonic and feelings undeclared. And
there was still a niggling unease in the back of his mind, a stout wall closing off a part of himself from her.

That vague, nebulous uncertainty assumed concrete form on Sunday evening. He and Taylor were, for once that day, alone. They were in the den, engrossed in a chess game. The board was before them on the coffee table, and both sat forward, elbows on knees, Taylor frowning over his last move.

"I think you've trapped me," she complained.

"Never say die," he advised her.

"Well, I won't concede anyway," she said, and reached out to make a brilliant move.

Trevor blinked. "Damn."

She giggled.

The phone rang out in the hall just then; both of them ignored it as they stared down at the board, Trevor taking his turn to frown.

Moments after the phone rang, Luke appeared in the doorway to say quietly, "It's Dave, Taylor. He says it's important."

She didn't get up and head for the phone, but instead gazed at her father for a long, unreadable moment "All right, Daddy," she said finally in a low voice. 'Tell him to come over."

Luke nodded and went back into the hall.

Trevor looked at her in puzzlement. She seemed suddenly a bit tense, a bit preoccupied. "I realize it's none of my business," he said, "but who's Dave?" He thought she wasn't going to answer, which was so oddly unlike her that it made him anxious—inexplicably, he told himself fiercely—about this unknown man. But then she did answer.

"Dave is a senior detective in the homicide division."

"A cop?"

"A very good one." Taylor sighed, and to the watching man, her eyes seemed abruptly older than they had any right to be. "A few years ago his sister, who's a friend of mine, told him he should ask me for help in a homicide case. He was broad-minded enough to appreciate the fact that police departments have used psychics in the past, and he was by no means too proud to ask for help."

"So you helped him."

She nodded. "On the understanding that my name wouldn't be mentioned anywhere. Not in his official reports and not to
the press. He felt guilty about that when I was able to tell him where he could find the killer and then he got all the credit. But we had a long talk and straightened everything out. By now, he understands how I feel about it."

"And how do you feel?" Trevor asked, curiously.

Taylor looked at him with those too-old eyes and smiled faintly. "It isn't a pleasant thing to look into the mind of a killer; I couldn't handle that along with the attention the press would focus on me. I feel a responsibility to do what I can to help—but on my own terms. 1 won't be held up to the public as some kind of freak, and I won't have the police department ridiculed because they ask a psychic to help them."

Before Trevor could say anything—not that there was anything he
could
say—Luke came back into the room.

"He was calling from his car; he'll be here in a minute."

Taylor nodded silently. Trevor, watching her intently, realized that she'd somehow withdrawn into herself. And he wondered what it did to this sensitive, cheerful woman to look into the mind of a killer.

The rest of the family drifted in soon thereafter. They all seemed unusually subdued, and it took Trevor some moments to realize that they would remain near Taylor during whatever was to come, supporting her emotionally. And the silence of the normally talkative family disturbed him more than anything else.

Luke went to answer the summons of the doorbell, returning with a tall man in his mid-thirties who had graying black hair and intelligent brown eyes. As he was introduced to the detective, Trevor saw that his eyes were also very weary. Dave Miller sat down in a chair at right angles to Taylor and, though his lean face was unexpressive, he was clearly distressed.

"I'm sorry about this, Taylor. But we're at a standstill, nothing to go on, and if this creep follows the pattern he's established... random killings, nothing to tie the victims together, not a damn thing we can hold on to—"

"It's all right, Dave." She smiled at him, calm, quiet. "What've you got?"

From his pocket, the detective produced a plastic bag containing a black glove that bore ominous rusty stains on the fingers. He carefully rolled the top of the bag down so that it
was possible to touch the material without touching the stains. "This didn't belong to the latest victim, but it was found near the body. If it's his—"

Taylor reached out to take the bag from him, her fingers closing over the exposed material. She fingered it for a moment in silence, then suddenly went deathly pale. The bagged glove dropped to the floor.

"Taylor?" Trevor wanted to reach out and hold her suddenly, but he feared to break her concentration or somehow further disturb her with unwanted interference.

She sent him a reassuring if strained smile and bent to pick up the glove again. "It belongs to the killer," she murmured almost inaudibly. Obviously unwilling to ask it of her, Dave nonetheless spoke gently. "Can you tell me where to look for him?"

A pulse was beating strongly in Taylor's neck, but her pale face was calm. She closed her eyes and sat for long minutes holding the glove. Then her eyes opened—feverishly bright eyes, Trevor noted in alarm—and she dropped the stained thing on the coffee table beside their unfinished chess game. Her hands rubbed against her jean-clad thighs in the unconscious gesture of wiping away dirt.

Huskily, she said, "There's an apartment building on the east side of town. An old one. The fire escape faces the street. And there's a windowbox with—with geraniums: second floor, corner apartment. I think he's in that apartment. I know he's in that building. It's somewhere near Maple Street."

The detective picked up the glove and returned it to his pocket, nodding. "I know the area. Taylor... thank you."

"Just get him, Dave." Her eyes were still feverishly bright. "Get him before he can do that again."

He rose to his feet. "I'll call and let you know."

Luke and Sara walked him to the front door, and Trevor only dimly realized that the others had also left the room; all his attention was focused on the white, stricken face and glittering eyes of the woman sitting stiffly, controlled, at his side.

'Taylor?"

She looked at him blindly, trapped somehow in a dark place of little creeping things and big stomping ones. "Why is
it," she said in a reasonable, matter-of-fact tone, "that I can't cry when it matters? I wish it was the other way around. I wish I could cry when it mattered and not when it didn't."

Instinctively, Trevor reached out to enfold her in his arms, holding her rigid body in a comforting embrace. He said nothing, but only held her. A part of his mind noted that there was no "security blanket" this time, and that same distant piece of his intelligence realized that it was because she was rigidly locked inside herself. Not, he knew, because she didn't trust him with her vulnerability, but because, for her, there had never been an outlet for this kind of emotion.

"Why you?" he demanded, unconsciously fierce. "Why do you have to do this?"

In that same toneless, matter-of-fact voice, she said, "Because I'm the strongest. Stronger even than Mother or Daddy. It wouldn't be so bad if—if I could only cry."

The same dim part of his mind that saw so clearly and made him uncomfortable with what it saw spoke up now softly in his mind. And it sneered at him because he wouldn't recognize the fact that
he
could be her outlet for this painful, imprisoned emotion. With the best and most loving will in the world, her family couldn't help; she was a woman, and a woman would share the vulnerable part of herself only with the man she gave her heart to.
They
could see her pain but were helpless to ease it;
he
could see her pain—and refused to.

Holding her, feeling the stiffness of her body, Trevor fought a violent inner battle. The wall that stood between them was his, a conscious thing, and he knew now why he couldn't remove it.

She could read his mind.

So simple. He was an intelligent man; he knew why that very simple statement—fact—disturbed him so deeply. It was a human need to be seen, to be known, but it was equally important to be able, when necessary, to retreat into the privacy of one's own silent thoughts. And that primitive part of his mind shied violently from the knowledge that with Taylor there would be no solitude.

That was what belonging to Taylor really meant.

And guilt caught his arms to tighten around her as that dim
sneering voice proclaimed that with him ... she would be able to cry when it mattered. If the wall were down. If they loved.

He felt it, then, when that wall rose higher. And he felt something that might have been hope shrivel. Holding her motionless body tightly, he said, "You're tired. You should sleep." He was surprised at the even tone of his voice.

She pushed gently away from him, her face calm now, but the wonderfully honest eyes still curiously blind. "No. I'll have nightmares," she added simply. "I always do." She looked at their unfinished chess game, then smiled at him. "It's your move."

Truer than you know,
he thought bleakly. Then, because he could do nothing else for her, he leaned forward to resume the game.

It was a couple of hours later when he rose to leave. Her eyes were no longer blind but calm and quiet. She said good night in something approaching her normal cheerful voice. But Trevor ached for her.

During the drive into the city to his apartment he fought inwardly, knowledge against desire, disquiet against the urge to at least
try.
If he could be sure that he was indeed the man for her—but he couldn't be sure. His emotions rioted until he didn't know what he felt.

He found a backpack just inside his front door and hoped his face was equal to Jason's perceptive eyes. His brother was lying on the couch, the room lit only by the glow of the television.

With an engaging grin, Jason said, "Your place is closer to the airport, and I have an early plane in the morning. D'you mind?"

"No, I don't mind. You've slept here before."

Abruptly, Jason sat up and turned on the lamp beside him, his green eyes fixed keenly on his brother's face. Oddly hesitant, he said, "I don't have to leave tomorrow, you know. I can stick around for a few days."

"Why should you do that?" Trevor asked, surprised.

"Just... in case you want to talk."

"I go back to work tomorrow, remember?" Trevor wondered vaguely what his brother saw in his face to cause that younger face to go suddenly grim. "I'm fine."

"Are you?"

Pausing on his way toward the bathroom, Trevor looked levelly at Jason. "I'm fine. And you'll get on that plane if I have to put you on it myself. See you in the morning, Jase."

"Good night."

Trevor got ready for bed, sparing only a brief moment for a look in his dresser mirror. He didn't see anything in his own calm face, but it occurred to him as he slid between the sheets that he looked older than he'd thought.

In the morning. Jason said nothing more about deferring
his vacation, but his eyes on Trevor were searching and troubled. Trevor noticed, but he said nothing. He put his brother safely on his plane and then went on to the law firm where he was a junior partner.