Fear the Dark (7 page)

Jonah didn't even know what questions to ask next, so he was more than a little relieved when the other three agents rejoined them at the Jeep. Samantha immediately told them about watches and cell phones, about what had been different at the Tyler house, and then asked Robbie what she had sensed.

“Definitely energy. My watch stopped. And—” She pulled a cell phone in an unusual rubberized case from her pocket and looked at it, then reached over for Jonah's arm and calmly compared her cell to his watch. “That look about right to you? We were down there about ten minutes?” she asked him.

“I think so.”

“Time lost. That's a new one.” She released Jonah's arm and returned her cell to her pocket.

Luke was frowning as he looked at her. “You didn't say if it was negative energy.”

“I didn't know. I didn't drop my shields,” she told him. “What I felt through them was too strong to risk doing that. I'm a receiver, remember?”

“Is that a . . . special kind of telepath?” Jonah asked.

“It's a matter of degree,” she told him. “Most telepaths have to drop their shields and then focus, concentrate. I drop my shields and it all just comes rushing in.”

“All what?”

“The thoughts of roughly half the people within about a hundred yards of me,” she replied. “Like a loud party suddenly erupting in the next room. A lot of noise, but nothing makes sense.” She shrugged. “So I never completely drop my shields if I can help it. I just . . . open a little window. When I have to.”

“During a case.”

“Yeah, usually. Or in the lab. We're constantly working to learn better control, or figure out if there's a different way to use our abilities. I just . . . don't like trying to pick up someone's thoughts if it isn't necessary. It's an invasion of privacy.” Her chin firmed somewhat stubbornly.

Sam said, “Some of our telepaths feel the same, though not all of them. And some clairvoyants, like me, hesitate to touch objects we know were part of or near a scene of violence. Those headaches and nosebleeds, remember?”

Jonah had a strangely surreal moment when he realized he was discussing with four federal agents psychic abilities he had never believed in.

Until now.

—

IT DIDN'T TAKE
them long at all to check out the courtyard of the complex where Luna Lang vanished—and to find a smaller energy “bubble” there as well. Just in the security cameras' blind spot.

A bubble where time was lost.

Jonah wasn't positive but believed the bubble was the same size it had been when Mrs. Lang had disappeared. There was some discussion
about experimenting by having one or the other of them stand in the bubble, both to find out if they picked up anything unusual and to see if time continued to be lost.

But Lucas was reluctant to subject any of his team to a paranormal event they didn't understand—yet—so he elected to leave the area be. It wasn't roped off by crime scene tape, but there were several orange cones marking the area, all with signs stuck in them saying
PLEASE WALK AROUND.

“Does that work?” Luke asked the chief.

“Not sure. I had one of my uniforms stand watch for the first couple of days—with orders to stand back and within the existing security camera's view at all times. He reported nothing unusual, and also that the residents of the complex were giving this whole area a wide berth. No teenagers live here, just small kids being watched
very
closely by parents or nannies, and when the complex manager told me they were continuing to install more security cameras, including that one”—he pointed to one up high, which very obviously covered this entire area—“I decided the cones would be enough to keep people away. So far, so good.”

Sam said, “One thing about nervous fear, it does a lot to minimize curiosity. Or at least keep it internalized.”

So that was settled.

Jonah had called ahead so that the downtown theater owner, Kent Ferguson, was there to unlock the front door and let them in at this odd afternoon hour.

“Is the downtown area always this deserted on a Wednesday afternoon?” Luke asked.

“Not quite this deserted, even though several of the stores follow
an old tradition and close up around noon on Wednesdays. But since these disappearances, there isn't a lot of loitering to pass the time. People get out, go to work or do whatever else they have to do, and then go home, in broad daylight if possible, and with company. We've suggested everybody buddy up, not just the kids, and most are taking the advice to heart.”

“Curfew?”

“Midnight. Another strong suggestion, even though most had already set their own curfews—considerably earlier. I'm sure Kent will mention that.”

And the theater owner did, the instant he swung the door open for them. “Jonah, when are things going to get back to normal around here? I can't sell enough tickets to even bother with popcorn.”

Jonah was tempted to say something about the little girl who had vanished the night before, but he'd been at this job too long to lose his temper that easily.

“We're working on it, Kent,” he said, calm. “Do you mind turning up the house lights in the theater and waiting for us here in the lobby?”

“Sure, sure. Anything if it'll help . . .” He didn't repeat his earlier complaint, perhaps realizing just how it sounded. Just bustled off and left Jonah to lead the way into the theater.

“Sorry I didn't introduce you,” he told the agents. “But trust me when I say you're better off when Kent
doesn't
know your name.”

“We have thick skins,” Lucas said absently as they stood in the aisle and looked around the theater. “Two doors back here, two emergency exits down front.”

“Yeah,” Jonah said. “And everyone who noticed him said that Sean Messina left for the lobby through the door on this side. The one we
just came through.” Realizing, he added, “And no bubble of energy here. Or did I miss it?”

“No,” Lucas said. “You didn't miss it. There isn't one, as far as I can tell. Interesting. And you said the Tyler house was the same. So, the open areas hold the energy while the enclosed ones don't.”

Half under his breath, Jonah muttered, “Why do I think that's a very bad sign.” It wasn't a question.

Robbie took a step back and turned to eye that entrance/exit. “The door has that dark little vestibule thing so people coming in or going out don't spill light into the dark theater. So if he
did
go out this door, that's really the only blind spot before the lobby cameras would have picked him up. What's that, about twelve square feet?”

“Less,” Jonah said. “There was a couple in the back row here—another young couple—and they both knew Sean and his girlfriend. They swear whatever scene happened to be playing on the screen just then was bright enough so they saw him, recognized him, even waved to him. They said he used that door. But he never went
through
the door into the lobby, at least not according to the cameras.”

“Just vanished into thin air,” Luke said. “But no change in energy for the area. We all walked through that space just now, and I don't think any of us picked up anything out of the ordinary. Did we?”

The other three agents shook their heads.

“I'm going to go out on a limb,” Luke said, “and guess we won't have a reaction at the Tyler house either, especially since Jonah noted the clocks weren't affected. Whatever happened to these people, an energy signature was left behind only outside.”

“Which,” Samantha said, “is very, very strange.”

When they left the theater, they split up, with Dante and Robbie getting the key from Jonah and going to start unloading the SUV and setting up their temporary command center, and Luke and Sam going with Jonah to the Tyler house.

They met Jonah's second, Sarah Waters, who was undoubtedly exhausted but didn't look it. She was a tall, slim woman with very dark hair worn up so it was impossible to guess its length, sharp blue eyes, and a lovely face that was curiously doll-like in its delicacy and would have looked more natural within the pages of a fashion magazine. Her excellent figure looked more model than cop as well, even with the still-crisp police uniform she wore. She greeted them with the information that relatives were with the parents in the upstairs den, making missing-child flyers.

“At least it's keeping them occupied,” Sarah told Jonah and the
agents. “They've been just about going out of their minds all day. And I didn't see the harm, with the Amber Alert out now.”

“You've kept in touch with the station?”

“Of course. Nothing coming in on the tip line except the usual crank calls and a few insisting they saw Nessa hundreds of miles away in some unlikely spot.” She shrugged wearily. “If it was within the realm of possible, I had one of our people reach out to law enforcement in those areas so they could check. Every single one of them came up empty.”

“What about media?”

“Well, assuming Nessa's abduction was tied in with the others, which we are, we've been lucky with the media. Local is staying quiet as per your request, and regional is caught up with numerous cases, including that serial in Virginia, the one law enforcement believes they're finally close to catching after nearly a year and too many bodies.”

“And national?”

“Election year coming up, so there's that. Plus a train derailment last night that's still burning crude, a couple of idiot drug dealers barricaded in a Chicago house threatening a shootout with police—and tornado season has started early and with a vengeance in the Midwest. We're barely a blip on the radar.”

“Let's hope it stays that way. Go home, Sarah.”

“Look, I want to—”

“You want to keep working the case. And you will. Tonight. But you worked the late shift last night and you've been up all day. Go home, get a few hours' sleep and some food into you. Head back to the station around midnight or later. We'll either be there or next door.”

Sarah finally nodded. “I told Caroline and Matt they needed to stay here. Just in case. And whatever relatives aren't out putting up those flyers before dark will stay here and make sure they aren't left alone. I'll stop at the station and send one of our people to stand guard at the front door; it's probably useless security-wise, but at least the family will know we're nearby.”

“Okay. Thanks. Go home and get some rest.”

She nodded, then left Jonah and the agents standing in the side of the open-concept space that was the living area.

“She's a good cop,” Jonah said, keeping his voice low. “Sarah was the one to notice there was a defined perimeter around all the outdoor sites where someone went missing.” He paused, then added, “Neither one of you has said—not that you had the chance, really—but I gather there's no unusual energy here.”

Samantha shook her head. “The opposite of what it should be, just like at the theater. The inside spaces are clear—and the outside spaces are holding on to energy that should have dissipated long before now.” She was studying the area even as she spoke, frowning slightly.

“Energy from
what
?” Jonah asked. “Tell me how someone or some
thing
could have taken these people? It's like something swooped down out of the sky and carried them away—except that two of them vanished even with roofs over their heads.”

“I don't have a clue,” Samantha said frankly.

Jonah eyed her. “I was looking for something a little more helpful.”

“Sorry. Though there is still a chance I can pick up some kind of useful information yet.”

“How?”

Luke didn't appear very happy about it, but said, “Sam is a very powerful touch clairvoyant and seer, remember? Even though she's sensed energy in some of these places, her true ability is that she picks up knowledge from touching objects involved in crimes, or the belongings of victims.”

Jonah eyed her again, curiously now. “Always?”

Sam shook her head. “Had this thing most of my life, and still can't really control it. But like most of us, I've found that the more traumatic or violent the event, the more likely I am to pick up something.”

A rather unreadable expression in her very dark eyes nevertheless gave Jonah the impression that whatever she “picked up” from those violent or traumatic events was usually not pleasant, but he didn't question. He figured that time and observation would answer at least some of his questions. So he merely nodded.

“Okay. Well, anything we could even remotely classify as evidence is bagged up back at the station. I'll have it sent next door to our makeshift command center. I assume we'd all rather you not . . . try to pick up information in a police station.”

“That wouldn't be my first choice, no.”

Luke looked at her, frowning. “Are you sure you shouldn't rest first, Sam?”

She smiled faintly. “We made a deal, remember? Even if I collapse at your feet—which admittedly I've already done once today—I still get to decide if I'm okay to try to use my abilities. As long as I'm conscious, my decision.”

“I have veto power.”

“Yeah, but only if I'm showing signs of too much strain. Nosebleed,
sensitivity to light, pounding headache. I don't have any of those. So I get to decide.”

Because he couldn't help himself, Jonah looked at the very intense fed and said, “How on earth did she get you to agree to that?” Then he remembered these two were married and added hastily, “Never mind, nosy question.”

Luke took his wife's hand, neither of them seeming anything but amused, and said to Jonah, “Some things really are better left as mysteries. Let's go try to figure out the ones that need to be solved.”

—

DANTE STEPPED AWAY
from the evidence board, where he had constructed a neat timeline for the disappearances, and rubbed the back of his neck as he studied it.

In a conversational tone, Robbie said, “I hope you realize that the longer you keep your shields at full strength, the more likely they are to desert you when you really don't want them to. Like when you're sleeping.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” he murmured.

She ignored that. “I'm just saying, there's no negative energy here, so maybe it would be a good idea for you to rest your shields, that's all. I checked; this building was constructed less than twenty years ago, and nobody ever died here. No deaths in previous buildings at this location, and it's not some kind of Indian burial ground or anything.”

“So there are no spirits here?” He turned his head to look at her; while he had worked, she had set up, on a small table against one wall
rather than the larger round table, one of the laptops they'd brought from Quantico. “Have you ever worked with a medium before?”

“Not as a partner, but in a group, sure. You know as well as I do that Bishop sort of mixes and matches until he gets a good fit.” She frowned. “I wonder why he thought we'd be a good fit?”

“Maybe he's still mixing,” Dante suggested. “Members of the team generally
have
to work together before anyone—including Bishop—knows whether they'll work
well
together.”

“Are you saying we don't?” She was curious rather than offended.

“I don't think either of us knows yet. We haven't really had to do anything so far that required a collaborative effort. But, for future reference, most mediums will tell you that whether someone died in a place has absolutely nothing to do with whether spirits are present. As a matter of fact, according to Bishop, and based on both lab and field studies, one thing we're reasonably sure of is that mediums tend to attract spiritual energy. Whether we're trying to or not.” He rubbed his neck again. “This place could be filled with spirits, gathered from all over town and God knows where else, waiting for me to open a door for them.”

She couldn't help looking around rather warily, even though she knew she'd see nothing out of the ordinary. “Do you intend to keep your shields up regardless?”

“Regardless of what?”

“Regardless of whether this case suggests or even demands that we investigate spiritual energy.”

“I don't know,” he said finally, adding, “If there's no negative energy here, why don't you drop your shields?”

“I meant what I said about seldom if ever dropping them
completely,” she replied. “But I do have a window open. That's how I knew your shields were still up.”

“Maybe you just can't read me.”

“Actually, I can.” When he frowned slightly, she shrugged. “You, Luke, Sam—and Chief Riggs. I can read all of you. Riggs is clearest, since he only has the bare shield nonpsychics develop—especially if they're cops.”

“You can read Luke and Sam?”

“Yeah—probably because both have abilities they generally have to concentrate to use, so neither needs much in the way of shields. I mean, they're sort of guarded people by nature, both of them, but they have an emotional and psychic link that's just a bit like neon, to me anyway.”

“Like Bishop and Miranda?”

“No, not like that. Bishop and Miranda's link is a link between two telepaths, and exceptionally deep. Luke and Sam haven't been together as long, and neither one is a telepath, so the link is different. But they're still connected. Not quite two halves of a whole, but stronger together than they are separately.”

Dante was still frowning. “What about my shields?”

With a slightly apologetic gesture, Robbie said, “That's why I wanted to warn you to give them a rest now and then. They're slipping, Dante. Not much and not often, but if you're not completely focused on keeping them up, like you were at the stream, then . . . they slip.”

“And when they do, you read my thoughts?”

“It's more like catching your thoughts. Or, rather, not catching them. I don't focus on them or anything; they're more like whispers kind of slipping past me. And only when I have a window open.”

He sighed. “Does that help you, to open a window?”

“Yeah, usually. I don't like doing it with lots of people around, so I tend to wait for quieter moments. If I don't open a window now and then, my shields tend to slip too, and usually when I'm least prepared for that to happen.”

“Like when you're asleep.”

“When I'm asleep. Or when something unexpected happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look at us now. We're doing ordinary things we tend to do on cases, the usually boring gathering of information and getting it organized so it becomes useful to us. You've combed through various files to assemble information, developing a timeline; I've set up this laptop to receive more info from Quantico—which is actually scheduled to come through in the next hour, according to a brief e-mail from Bishop.”

After a moment's thought, Dante said, “The security footage?”

“Hopefully examined and enhanced by the techs at Quantico so it's useful to us, yeah. And Bishop said he was sending along some aerial views of Serenity as well.”

“He did? Why?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Bishop never does anything without a reason,” Dante said slowly.

“That's what everybody says.”

“So . . . what? He retasked a satellite to get aerial images of this town?”

“Well, I doubt he went online and used one of those find-your-house-on-a-map sites.”

“Robbie, retasking a satellite is a big deal. As in a national-
security-sense big deal. Those birds tend to be busy doing things like watching enemies or potential enemies, tracking storms, facilitating communications, and God knows what else.”

With a shrug, she said, “I guess he believes it'll help us, or that we really need it for some reason he suspects or knows and just hasn't had the chance to tell us yet. I mean, he has to justify doing something like that, right? To the Director, at least?”

“I would think so. But I don't actually know. Remind me to ask Luke about it. He was part of the earliest group of psychics Bishop found and recruited, so I assume he'd know.”

Robbie tapped neat pink fingernails on the table beside the laptop. “You know, when I first joined the unit, one of the other agents warned me that I would always be able to trust what Bishop tells me—but that he almost always leaves stuff out. Sometimes fairly important stuff.”

“I was told the same thing,” Dante admitted.

“So . . . what do you think he left out about this case?”

Dante hesitated, then said, “From all I've heard, we probably won't know whatever it is. Until we fall over it.”

“Or into it,” Robbie said.

“Yeah,” Dante agreed somewhat hollowly. “Or into it.”

—

HE NEVER MOVED
until it got dark. Never came out.

The darkness was what fueled him, fed him. What gave him his power. The darkness allowed him to work.

He was aware of the hunters, those who belonged here and those who had come to join the hunt. They didn't disturb him.

He had the darkness.

The weapons they wielded were puny by comparison.

They just didn't know that. Not yet.

He passed by his Collection on the way out, all of them still and silent behind the bars.

In the darkness.

His Collection that was not . . . quite . . . complete. He needed to hunt again. Tonight, in the dark, he needed to hunt. To choose his prey.