Deadly Visions (9 page)

Sam Tyson stared at the boom box in the cluttered back room of his downtown magic store. “Jeez, kind of chills you to the bone, doesn't it?”

Joe pushed the stop switch. He'd made a cassette copy of Murphy's percussion track before turning the CD over to the police crime lab. The techs already knew that the song's title,”Nothing but the Stars,” had been “read” by Monica at Murphy's crime scene, and they pestered him for an explanation. All in good time, he'd told them. “The voice doesn't sound real, does it?”Joe said.

“Neither does the music, for that matter. How do people listen to that crap?” Sam picked up an armload of packing straw and shoved it into a wood crate. He was packing up a custom-built illusion he called Ice of Atlantis to send to a Las Vegas magician who had become rich performing Sam's spectacular tricks.

Joe smiled.”Let's forget for a moment that you hate any music past Rudy Vallee's time.”

“I'm not that old, kid.”

“Crosby and Sinatra's time.”

“Now you're talking.”

“Most of the spotlight murder victims heard strange voices in the last days of their lives. This is the only recording we have. Do you know anybody who specializes in audio tricks?”

“Like ventriloquism?”

“Not exactly. There was no one else around in most of these cases.”

“I'll have to think about that one.” Sam leaned against the crate. “I bought a new TV last year, and it has a setting that gives the illusion that the sound is coming from behind you.”

“Surround sound?”

“Yeah, but there aren't any speakers behind you. The circuitry plays with the sound in such a way that it fools the ear into believing that part of it is radiating from behind.”

Joe nodded.”A lot of newer televisions do that.”

“Well, I know a ventriloquist who can do it without a lot of fancy electronics. Whatever that TV is doing to the sound, he must be able to do by sheer instinct. You'd swear his voice was coming from behind you.”

“Like I said, there was no one else present at these places. And as bitter as I'd be if I had to make my living as a professional ventriloquist, I don't think it's bad enough to turn one into a serial killer.”

“Well, being a professional magician was bad enough to turn you into a cop.”

“Good point.”

“All I'm saying is that there are all kinds of ways to
fool the human senses. We know how easy it is to fool the eye, kid. I'll try to put you in touch with some people who can fool the ear.”

“Just what I was hoping you'd say. Thanks, Sam.” “Anytime. Give me a hand with the lid, will you?” Joe helped Sam lift the heavy wooden lid and position it squarely atop the packing crate. Joe smiled as he caught sight of Sam stealing one last look at his hand-crafted illusion before sealing it for the long cross-country journey. It obviously pained him to release each new illusion, like an artist being forced to part with a favorite work of art.

Sam met Joe's eyes and nodded at the understanding he saw there. “This is a good one, Joe. It's gonna make a lot of people happy.”

In a suburban neighborhood off Peachtree-Dunwoody Road, Haddenfield pulled to a stop and climbed out of his car. Shawn Dylan was already there, waiting in the shadows of a large sycamore tree.

“You're late.” Dylan spoke matter-of-factly, without a trace of anger in his voice. The way he always sounded, Haddenfield thought, until his cooler-than-cool demeanor suddenly erupted.

“I was busy,” Haddenfield said. “We're setting up a new base across the street from Monica Gaines's hos-pital. There were some details to hammer out.”

“You know my feelings on the matter.”

“You're not the least bit curious about what happened to her?”

“Of course I am. But there are matters that require
our more immediate attention, and I still think Monica Gaines is a liability.”

“She's an integral part of our work.”

“She
was
an integral part. Now she could destroy everything.”

“I don't feel that way.”

“My superiors agree with you. Otherwise …” Dylan glanced away.

“Otherwise what?” Haddenfield stared at him.”You would have killed her already? Is that what you're saying?”

Dylan was silent.

Christ, Haddenfield thought. “Your superiors recognize this as an opportunity, Dylan. I haven't lost sight of our objective. You'll get your prize, and I'll get mine.”

“Until we leave, I'll be staying close to Monica. There may be other interested parties, you know.”

“I know.”

“And just so you know, there's a limit to my superiors'indulgence. Believe me, you don't want to be around when their patience is at an end.”

Joe stepped inside Monica Gaines's room.

“Yes, Detective. I'm still here.” Monica's face was still red and swollen, but she looked more alert than when he'd last visited.

Joe smiled.”Hi, Monica. How do you feel?”

“Like I've been set on fire.” Her voice was thin and weak.

“Did they give you something for the pain?”

“Only a little. They wanted to dope me into oblivion, but I didn't let them.”

“Why?”

“If I'm going to die, I don't want to spend my last days in a fog.”

“Nobody says you're going to die.”

She glanced through the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the nurses'station. “The plump nurse with the red hair thinks I won't make it past Friday.”

Joe turned and spotted the nurse, who was at the desk, filling out paperwork.”How do you know?”

Monica managed a smile even though the effort was obviously painful.”I'm psychic, remember? She's been leaking information to a tabloid newspaper.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. She even promised to snap some pictures of my body after they wheel me down to the morgue.”

Joe stared at Monica in shock.

Monica nodded.”She wants ten thousand dollars, but they're willing to pay only five. Poor thing.”

“If you're sure about this, I'll talk to her supervisor on the way out.”

“Don't. At least not yet. She has a call in to one of the paper's competitors, and I'd like to see if they meet her price.” Monica closed her eyes, obviously fighting a wave of pain. After a moment, she glanced back at Joe. “You're dying to find out how I know this, aren't you? I have no telephone, and no one else has come to see me today.”

“Look, I didn't come here to debunk you.”

“But you do want to ask me about the sketches you found in my hotel room.”

Joe raised the large manila envelope he was holding. “Very good. Do you know what I want to ask?”

“I'm not in peak form. Fill me in on that one.”

Joe pulled out the sketches and showed them to her. “Did you draw these before you actually visited the crime scenes?”

“Of course not. You were there when I gathered my impressions.”

“It looks like these were drawn without any knowledge of the actual area.”

“I display my drawings on my website and in my books. When I'm in the field, my sketches are often rushed. Sometimes I like to refine my drawings. If the settings look a bit different, chalk it up to artistic license.” She gritted her teeth and suddenly turned away.

“Do you want me to get someone?”

Monica turned back.”No.”

Almost anyone else would have gladly taken a morphine drip, Joe thought. The lady was a fighter. He put away the drawings.”Okay. I'm also here to ask you who might have done this.”

“How could I possibly know that?”

“Well, given the fact that you're a world-famous psychic—”

“Are you actually giving some tiny shred of credence to my abilities?”

Joe pursed his lips. “You're a very intelligent and intuitive person. I'd be remiss if I didn't get your impressions.”

She settled back and stared at the ceiling. “I have no idea. I haven't been able to sense anything since
this happened. Whatever it is, I still don't think it's human.”

“So you're standing by that.”

“Of course.”

“Listen to me. Whoever is committing these murders may be afraid of you. They may have somehow engineered this attack to keep you from discovering them.”

“I've thought of that.”

“I know your show and website are making a lot of noise about this 'spirit killer'angle, but it may be obscuring the real issue here. There may be a flesh-and-blood murderer out there who wants you dead.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

The plump nurse walked into the room carrying a clipboard.”Don't mind me, keep talking.” She studied the instrument readings.

Monica raised her head.”There's a disposable camera in your locker, isn't there, honey?”

The nurse suddenly wore a startled expression. “Uh—yes, ma'am.”

Monica nodded. “I can see it. Tell me, dear, why would you want a camera in a place like this?”

The nurse turned red. “Well, there's a—a party later.”

“A party? Hmmm. I'm getting a slightly different reading. I can't quite put my finger on it. I see the camera, its flash going off—”

“I'm sorry, I have to run.” The nurse bolted from the room.

Joe chuckled. “I still think I should talk to her supervisor.”

Monica closed her eyes again, but this time she
wore a faint smile. “Only if I don't make it. In the meantime, I'll enjoy torturing that poor girl.”

What a bunch of clowns, Shawn Dylan thought.

Sitting at a window table of a tiny coffee shop, he watched Derek Haddenfield and his woefully inexperienced team scouting the area around the Grady Memorial Hospital. They were obviously looking for sites to set up surveillance on Monica Gaines's room. This wasn't their specialty, and they were using technology that was at least two years out of date. What the hell did they hope to gain from this?

Dylan paid his tab and walked toward the hospital. It was dark enough that Haddenfield and company wouldn't spot him, though he doubted they would recognize him anyway. They were always so wrapped up in their insular little world.

He passed a group of Monica Gaines's fans standing vigil with signs and candles. A teenage girl sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, rocking back and forth, chanting,”I love you, Monica, I love you, Monica….”

Dylan shook his head. Wow. Gaines's fans were nuttier than he thought.

What utter bullshit, he thought. Not the prospect of Monica Gaines's psychic abilities, but the mere fact that an operative with his training and experience would be mixed up in this. Another town, another assumed name, another set of disguises. There was a time when Mother Russia led the world in psychic research, and other countries sent agents to spy on
it.
But that time was long past, and here he was, scrounging around for goddamned table scraps. He'd
heard of the old guard's experiments in grooming psychic spies; interesting stuff, he thought, but he'd never seen any proof that the attempts succeeded.

This could change all that. In this new era, such a force could be more important to his people than ever. Not merely to obtain state secrets, but high-tech innovations that could replace trillions in research and development. If this panned out, it could be huge: the information-age equivalent of the atomic bomb. This engine could bring an entire economy back from the dead and restore his government to its rightful place in world power.

He stared at Haddenfield. It was incredible that such an awesome power could rest in this foolish man's hands. He appeared to have discovered the Holy Grail of psychic research. Yes, it was worth the time to come here and confirm the project's results.

Soon the secret might be his, Dylan thought. When that happened, Derek Haddenfield would be totally expendable.

Nikki scooped up the Risk game pieces and dropped them into the box. “You just got lucky, Dad. Next time I'll slaughter you.”

“I have no doubt.” He'd beaten Nikki tonight, but just barely. He didn't dare lose intentionally; she could spot any attempt to throw a game from a mile away. Whether she won or lost, she was a good sport. She enjoyed her wins and carefully analyzed each loss to keep from making the same mistakes again.

She hugged him.”Good night, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.”

She pulled away and bounced to her room. “Next week, you're annihilated, Mister!” She closed her door behind her.

He smiled. It was all part of their regular Wednesday game night. After Angela's death, it seemed important to maintain a sense of order in the household, with regular meals and set times to spend together. Although work had recently intruded more than he liked, game night was off limits to anyone—or anything—but Nikki. They always ordered a pizza and took turns deciding which music would be played. Nikki preferred classical pieces, while Joe chose '70s or '80s rock.

He turned off Nikki's Ahn Trio CD and plopped into a chair. How many more years would their game nights continue? Nikki insisted they'd continue via computer modem long after she moved away and had a family of her own, but he knew that probably wouldn't happen. Life tended to get in the way of such nice, cozy plans.

He settled back into the couch. How long had it been since he'd talked to
his
father? It was ten-fifteen. Dad would be sitting in the projection booth at his Celluloid Palace movie theater in Savannah, catching up on his reading or just listening for audience laughter if a good comedy was playing. Dad beamed whenever the crowd cracked up at a Laurel and Hardy routine or Billy Wilder flick, as if he'd just performed it himself.

As Joe decided whether or not to call him, Nikki's bedroom door flew open. She ran across the room and threw her arms around him. My God, she was crying….

“Honey?”

“Daddy, I heard her.” “Who?”

Nikki trembled. “Mommy. I heard Mommy. She just talked to me.”