Blood Ties (27 page)

Diana looked at her numbly, and Brooke nodded. “Whatever his plan might have been, this is the reality. He’s been trapped in this cold, desolate place for a long time, and he wants to live again.”

“But—”

“He wants to live again, Diana.”

Serenade

M
iranda was regretting her impulse to answer the insistent questions of the young TV-journalist-wannabe even before she glanced several feet away to see Tony watching with slightly raised brows and Jaylene looking rather pointedly at her watch. Easy to read their expressions without the need for telepathy. They were all exhausted, and if they hurried they might be able to sleep an hour or three before they had to be up and at it again.

So why wasn’t she hurrying?

God knew she was so tired she was responding on automatic anyway, offering nothing useful to the eager blonde with the sharp eyes of some bird of prey that most probably ate its young.

I’m too tired for this. Bound to make mistakes. Time to go
.

“…
Ms. Welborne, I appreciate that you’re trying to do your job, but I can’t say anything more. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Agent—”

That was when the world blew up.

Miranda was still looking at the younger woman, and even though she knew it was all happening in split seconds, time seemed to almost stop so that she saw every horrible detail.

Naomi Welborne’s face just sort of… split and flopped open. Blood and bits of tissue sprayed Miranda, almost blinding her. The TV reporter jerked to one side and started to go down, still holding her microphone.

Only then did they hear the
craa-aack
of the high-powered rifle.

After that things happened fast.

Miranda’s instincts and training kicked into gear, and she dove toward the nearest building, hooking an arm around the stunned cameraman to take him down as well. A quick look showed her that her people were also diving for cover, as were the other cops and feds. Even the few remaining media on the other side of the crime-scene tape had the sense to at least hit the deck.

The same glance showed her that Jaylene had been hit in the upper arm and was pretty much being dragged by Tony behind one of the big decorative trash containers on the sidewalk.

Wonder if the bastard meant to get two again… Where the hell is he… has to be using a night scope…

A weird silence fell.

Miranda found her weapon in her hand even though she had no memory of reaching for it. Her dive had taken both her and the cameraman into the shadows of a three-story building; a quick and rough calculation told her she was most likely out of the sniper’s line of sight.

Most likely.

“Jaylene?” she called.

“I’m okay. Just a flesh wound. Tony’s already got the bleeding stopped.” She sounded calm.

Tony called out, “She needs a medic, Miranda.” He, too, sounded a lot calmer than he had any right to be.

From closer to the mobile command center, Dean called, “Shot came from the south, definitely. Angle says he’s in or on a building close by, not farther away or higher up. We’ve got people fanning out.”

“Have them stick close to the buildings,” Miranda responded, barely having to raise her voice in the eerie silence. “Every building checked, Dean, and when they’re clear I want somebody posted at every entrance and exit.”

“We’ll run out of manpower.”

“Use what we’ve got until reinforcements arrive. Have one deputy or agent cover more than one door whenever possible. If we can’t find this bastard, we can at least flush him out and force him to move farther away. This is not going to become his goddamn shooting gallery.”

“Copy that.”

In an almost conversational tone, Tony said, “We have reinforcements coming?”

“We do now,” Miranda replied.

“Great. What about the reporter? Any hope?”

“No. She’s gone.” A whimpering sound drew her attention, and Miranda looked down at the cameraman lying like a log beside her on the pavement. “Are you okay?” she asked mechanically, even as her mind registered the absurdity of the question. There were spatters of blood on one side of his face, and a small piece of what looked like brain tissue clung to the lens of his camera.

He stared at her with huge, unseeing eyes and continued to whimper like a terrified child.

Miranda couldn’t really blame him. Some part of her wanted to curl up somewhere and whimper. But that wasn’t a part she could give in to. She hesitated for only a moment and then reached to activate a small device hidden in her ear.

“Roxanne?”

“Here. Sorry, Miranda—I don’t know how he slipped past us.” The voice in her ear was quiet, but more because it was faint than because Roxanne was speaking quietly. They hadn’t been sure these new coms would work in this area at all, but with the help of the tactical command center’s booster antennas, the signals were at least somewhat effective within a half-mile to a mile radius here in the downtown area.

“Never mind that now. Can you sense him?”

“That’s the thing. We’ve been trying and we can’t. It’s like there’s some kind of interference; both of us have headaches, and we don’t
get
headaches. Even now we can’t tell you for sure where he was, whether he’s on the move, or where he’s heading. Nothing.”

“Copy that.” There wasn’t much else Miranda could say.

“We were watching Main Street.” Roxanne’s voice was grim now. “Saw what happened. Gabe’s guess of the trajectory is that the bastard was on the roof of that two-story building by the library at the south end of Main Street. But it’s just a guess. We’re headed there now.”

“Watch yourself.”

“Copy that.”

The cameraman was whimpering louder.

Ignoring him, Miranda raised her voice to say, “Tony, can you get Jaylene to the command center?”

“Yeah, I think so. Can you move?”

“Well, since I don’t intend to lie here all day, I’m damn well going to try.” It had been, she realized, no more than five minutes since the sniper’s bullet had killed the reporter.

The sky was lightening as night edged toward dawn; it wouldn’t be long before the people who worked in the downtown restaurants showed up to begin cooking breakfast. And following soon after would be the townsfolk who normally ate breakfast at their favorite spots before beginning their own busy days.

Normal days.

I wonder if this town will ever be normal again
.

“Come on,” she said to the cameraman.

“I—I don’t—”

“I don’t either,” she said grimly. “But I think a moving target will be harder to hit than a stationary one, don’t you?”

He gave a choked gasp and then turned onto his belly and scurried like a crab toward the building.

He left his camera. Miranda picked it up and followed him, not scurrying but keeping low. When they were pressed up against the building, she led the way north toward the command center.

Although why I don’t think he’d shoot some kind of explosive shell in there is beyond me
.

Because it looked as if someone had definitely declared war in this once-peaceful little town.

The question was, who?

H
ollis started awake, emerging from a nightmare filled with blood and fire and screams, her heart pounding.

DeMarco’s arms tightened around her. “Go back to sleep.”

Confused, she realized that they were in bed together. Well, not
in
bed together, but
on
a bed together. Not under the covers, certainly, but only their clothing separated them. She was on her side and he was behind her—close behind her, so that she could feel just about every inch of him—with his arms around her.

She was very conscious of his heart beating steadily against her back and his breath stirring her hair.

Okay, how did this happen?

“Your attempt to heal Diana wiped you out,” he said.

“Will you stop that?” Despite her best efforts, her voice was a bit unsteady.

“It was logical that would be your question.”

“Yeah, you always say something like that. I don’t believe you.” She realized they were in a tiny bare room lit only by a dim lamp on a low nightstand in one corner. And the bed was… not large. Still in the hospital? If so, not in a typical patient’s room. Maybe a room where interns and residents napped when on call?

“How did I—how did we—get here?”

“I carried you.”

Carried me?

“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say about that.

“Go back to sleep,” he repeated. “It isn’t even seven-thirty, so you barely got in a nap. And you really need to rest.”

“What about Diana? Did I help her at all?”

“I think so. The nurse who ran us out said Diana’s vital signs were more stable than they’d been all night.”

“We were run out?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

She waited a moment, then prompted, “Why were we run out?” It wasn’t the only detail about which she was fuzzy. She remembered making the attempt to help Diana heal, remembered the hot pulse of energy that seemed to well up inside her own body, and then… nothing. It was as if she’d fallen into a deep black hole of silence.

DeMarco said, “Visiting an ICU patient without permission at five in the morning generally raises the ire of the nursing staff.”

“Oh.” She seemed to keep falling back on that useful syllable.

There was a big part of Hollis that wanted to just relax and enjoy the warmth and odd sense of security she felt lying there with him, but another part of her felt wary to the point of having to fight not to stiffen up. The battle was a rather subdued one, however, since she was so tired she could hardly think straight anyway.

“You need to rest,” he repeated.

“I’ve been resting. Apparently.”

“You’ve been unconscious. Big difference.”

“I feel fine,” she lied.

“Hollis. You need to sleep.”

She hesitated and then, because it was easier when she wasn’t looking at him, said, “I think I’m afraid to sleep. Afraid I might get drawn into the gray time when I’m not strong enough to pull myself back out again.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I think I had one foot in there earlier. Or… something a lot like it.”

“And I think you’re in a hospital holding a lot of pain, where a lot of people have died, and you’re a medium. They looked more real to you because that sense was wide open, and your other ones were all but shut down from exhaustion.”

Hollis thought about that and decided she liked his explanation better than her own. Because his explanation enabled her to give way to the weariness and begin to relax again. And once she began to relax… “Or it could be my eyes,” she said, blinking sleepily, trying to keep the little lamp in focus.

“Your eyes?”

“Well… these eyes. They aren’t mine, you know.”

“Of course they’re yours.”

“I mean I wasn’t born with them.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Do you? Did you read my file or my mind?”

“Go to sleep, Hollis.”

She closed her eyes finally but murmured, “I see differently with them, you know. Through them.”

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh. Hard to explain. Colors are different. Sometimes… my depth perception is … off. And there are… lions. I mean lines. Extra lines around things. Some things. Sometimes. Plus … the auras… around… living things. It’s… weird. I think… I’m weird….”

DeMarco waited a moment longer, but her even breathing told him she was finally asleep again. He didn’t relax but instead concentrated—as he had been concentrating during the last couple of hours—on keeping his shield extended just far enough to enclose Hollis as well as himself.

It was something of an experiment, since he’d never attempted to use his shield this way before, but he knew it was possible: Miranda could do it, and some of the SCU guardians, like Bailey, could too. And since he
was
able to project some of his energy outward to dampen the strength of other psychics, he figured—as Hollis had in her attempt to heal Diana—that it was worth a try.

Something he had to try, since he knew damn well that Hollis didn’t have the energy or strength right now to wander around in the gray time. And if that
was
where Diana’s spirit had gone, if she had opened that door, then Hollis would most certainly be drawn there when she slept and what few guards she could claim—virtually all of them emotional ones—came down.

She was completely defenseless when she slept. He actually had to concentrate to avoid reading her, and even when he did so he could still hear the distant whispers of her thoughts, her dreams.

She was not going to like that. At all.

He wasn’t entirely certain he liked it himself. Not, at least, as it stood now. Just as she had felt she had one foot in the gray time, he felt he had only a partial connection to her, and that one very elusive and uncertain. Not so surprising, considering that they had met only a few months ago and both had been too active in investigations since to have much of a personal life. Still, he knew what he wanted.

DeMarco was a patient man, but he had lived on the edge far too long to have any illusions about the security of one’s life. As Quentin had discovered in a single horrifying moment, time could run out in a heartbeat, leaving the most important words unsaid—possibly forever.

But he also understood what had kept Quentin silent for so many months; being a telepath, DeMarco had picked up information he undoubtedly had no right or business knowing, and the unsought and unwanted insight told him that Diana had more emotional scars than any woman should have to carry in a lifetime.

Rather like Hollis.

One woman kept medicated by doctors and a domineering father since childhood, supposedly for her own good, forced to drift through her own life with no say in her future; one woman brutalized in a horrific attack that had left her terribly damaged, body and soul. And both with powerful psychic gifts they continually struggled to master.