Hostage (12 page)

“Like my telepathy?”

“Like your telepathy. And possibly Jacoby’s abilities, whatever those really are.”

Callie rose and took both their coffee cups to be refilled. Luther only half watched her, trying to think the situation through from a standpoint of tactics and resources.

He accepted the coffee from her and took a swallow, grateful for the warmth even if it did little to help the cold unease inside him. No matter which way he looked at it, which way he considered, the situation up here just seemed like a bad one to him.

He looked at her as she sat across from him, knowing better than to underestimate any of Bishop’s people, but way too conscious of himself likely being more of a burden than a help.

“Every instinct tells me that could be bad a lot easier than it could be good. For both of us.”

“Given that it’s negative energy, you’re probably right.”

“I should leave.” He took another swallow of his coffee, frowning. “We should both leave. Or get down to town and call for backup.”

“Possibilities,” she allowed. “But . . . so far the bad is distant enough not to worry me. This being a safe spot, I’m inclined to stay, at least for the time being. And you need time to heal.”

“I can’t be much help while I’m healing.”

“Well, there isn’t all that much to be done,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, right. You trying to gather information about Jacoby and his bad energy alone also sounds like a bad idea.” He held up his free hand when she would have spoken. “Granted, I don’t know the strength of your abilities, but the point is the going-anywhere-near-him-alone part. With all due respect to Cesar, if Jacoby’s stronger than you believe, or darker, more negative, neither your abilities nor your dog might be able to protect you. What then?”

She returned his gaze steadily for a moment, sipping her coffee, then said, “Well, I’m a great one for not crossing bridges until I come to them. Right now, there’s no urgent reason why I need to get close to Jacoby. Time enough in a few days, I’m thinking. Give him a chance to settle down after the encounter with you. Give him time to drop his guard, if it’s up. You’ll likely be on your feet by then.”

He uttered a short laugh. “Yeah, but there’s also the thing about me becoming an active telepath with a cracked shield. And being affected by that negative energy even more than I possibly already have been. If you’re right about that, I could well be more of a hindrance than a help.”

“Maybe. Or maybe we’ll just have to keep you near—but at a safe distance from that cabin.”

“And if it’s Jacoby generating that negative energy, or he’s . . . able to carry it with him?” Luther was having a bit of trouble concentrating, and he frowned when her grave face seemed to blur a bit. He took a drink of his strong coffee, hoping it would help. It didn’t.

“It’s something we—I—have to find out about him. Along with other questions to be answered. Whether it’s growing or getting darker. Just how far he can go in using it. If he has any control at all.”

“So you have to get closer to him.”

“Eventually. No real hurry.”

“He’s shooting at people, Callie. Those hunters weren’t threatening him, and I didn’t threaten him, but he shot at all of us.” He rubbed his face with one hand, wondering if maybe a hot shower would clear his head somewhat. Except he didn’t want to use up her propane . . .

“When the time comes, I’ll be careful,” she said.

“Still. Bishop should have . . . sent somebody else. With you. Or we should call. For backup.” He was vaguely aware that Callie had gotten up silently and come over to take his coffee cup away from him.

“Why don’t you rest a bit,” she suggested. “Your leg needs time to heal, and nothing much is likely to happen in the next few hours. Sleep.”

He didn’t want to. In fact, he fought against it, trying mightily to keep his eyes open. But he lost the fight, and it wasn’t until he was almost out that he suddenly wondered . . .

“You . . . Did you . . . ?”

“Would I do that?” she murmured, apparently understanding.

Luther thought she would. He also thought he didn’t care much, and slipped into a peaceful darkness.

* * *

CALLIE CARRIED THE
bowls and cups to the sink. Cesar uttered a curiously human sigh when she passed him, and she laughed under her breath. “Well, he obviously wasn’t going to rest any other way, his mind was going a mile a minute. Just a little sedation, that’s all. He’ll sleep a few hours, and be the better for it.”

Won’t like you.

“He won’t be happy, but I doubt he’ll be angry.”

Tricked him.

The easy telepathic link she had with Cesar, existing since the first time she’d picked up the wiggling black-and-tan puppy, had become an important part of Callie’s life and an integral part of the professional partnership.

Also the major reason Bishop had not only okayed the partnership but had asked that she provide rather extensive reports of her communications with her dog—as well as other animals she was able to connect to.

There had been a few of those along the way, but communication with animals other than Cesar tended to be brief and not nearly so . . . human. Whether Cesar had developed better language skills over the years or they had simply become more familiar with each other through almost constant contact, their silent communications were sometimes very like human discussions.

Like now.

“I know I tricked him. But he’ll forgive me. Sometimes people have to be . . . persuaded . . . to do what’s best. Don’t worry about it.”

Stubborn man.

“Yes, he is.”

Stubborn Callie.

She chuckled. “True enough. And since he’s weakened by loss of blood, my stubborn beats his.”

With another sigh, Cesar rose from the rug and glanced at the door, then back at her. Callie nodded slowly. “Guess we should, and now before it gets too light.” She retrieved her weapon from a drawer of a small table near the door and clipped it to her belt, then took her quilted, hooded jacket from the hook also near the door and put it on.

She automatically checked to make sure her flashlight was in her pocket, took a last look at her guest to make sure he was resting comfortably, then said to Cesar, “Remind me to give him that penicillin shot when we get back. Probably best if I do that before he wakes up.”

Probably. Shots hurt.
Cesar’s tail, not docked as was the case with many Rottweilers, waved once, and then he followed her from the cabin.

Callie didn’t use her flashlight. She stood there on the wide porch of the cabin for a couple of minutes to allow her eyes to adjust, then moved out. It was dawn, but not by any stretch of the imagination bright; the mountain slope that hosted both her cabin and Jacoby’s faced east, but with another mountain between them and the rising sun, every new day took its time arriving.

The air was cold and clear, only the wisp of wood smoke from her fireplace hinting of anything not of nature’s doing. Callie automatically chose a path slightly different from the one she had used the last time she had gone out to check on Jacoby; every time, she varied her way, if only by a few yards, because she was naturally cautious and because she didn’t want to wear an actual path through the woods between his cabin and hers.

Despite the blanket of fallen leaves beneath her boots, it had been a wet autumn, so she didn’t have to worry about making noise as she walked. Not that she generally made any noise unless she wanted to.

She was in no particular hurry, walking slowly but allowing her gaze to scan the way ahead, looking and listening for anything out of place. About fifty yards away from her cabin, she stopped and quietly released Cesar from his automatic heel position so he could do his own kind of scanning. He moved out willingly, nose to the ground and moving silently, pausing here and there to mark his territory, but keeping her within sight and at the center of a wide circle.

Clearly, since he had no comment and showed no other signs, he sensed nothing to disturb him, and after a few minutes, Callie continued on.

Depending on the path she took, it was nearly a mile between her cabin and Jacoby’s, and she had covered around half that distance when she stopped suddenly, frowning. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing sounded out of place.

And yet . . . she felt an odd pressure. A reluctance to take another step forward. Still, she had to try—

Stop.

She turned her head to see that Cesar had also come to a halt, even with her but higher up the slope. He didn’t make a sound but dipped his nose toward the ground, then lifted his head and looked at her.

Trouble?
She communicated silently because she wasn’t sure what it was Cesar was bothered by.

Not good. Come see.

Callie was wary, but not overly concerned; if there had been danger about, Cesar’s behavior as well as the warning would have been quite different.

Still, as she crossed the space to join her dog, she slid her hand inside her jacket and rested it on the handle of her gun, thumb ready to unsnap the holster. When she reached Cesar, she looked at the ground just in front of him—and even in the faint dawn light, she could see a wetness that was not last week’s rain or last night’s dew.

She took her hand off the weapon and drew out her flashlight instead as she went down on one knee. She didn’t turn the light on immediately but instead reached down and touched two fingers to the wetness. In the faint light, her fingertips looked stained. A quick check with her flashlight confirmed what she already knew.

Blood.

“But whose?” she murmured.

It wasn’t Luther’s, because he hadn’t gotten this far and because the path she had used to bring him to her cabin was a good fifty yards farther downslope, where a narrow but relatively flat ridge had made it easier for Cesar to pull the litter.

An animal, wounded by some hunter or the attack of another animal deeper in the forest? An injured hunter?

Not animal. Human.

Cesar was both too sensitive and too well trained to be wrong about that sort of thing.

Okay. But without something to compare it to, that’s all you can really tell me, right?

Yes, for sure. Human. But . . .

But what?

I think girl. Afraid.

It didn’t surprise Callie that Cesar could determine the gender of a victim from blood. His senses were extraordinary; even after years she was still marveling at them.

She turned the flashlight back on and carefully examined the ground all around them. Nothing. No tracks, no pawprints or hoofprints or footprints visible anywhere except the faint marks left by her and her dog. Of course, the blanket of leaves was thick, so there would likely be clear marks only if sharp hooves had dug into the ground here, or something heavy had fallen. Or there had been a struggle of some kind.

No sign of anything like that.

A girl who had been afraid, perhaps forced or carried against her will? There could have been no other physical signs of that here, at least none that would be visible without a forensic examination.

The blood was fresh. Callie was no forensics expert, but she knew enough to be reasonably sure this blood was only a few hours old. If that. Yet she and Cesar had walked past this spot, no more than twenty yards down the slope, when they had come out to check on Jacoby earlier.

Callie was certain Cesar would have scented the blood even at that distance, had it been here.

Yes. Would have. Wasn’t here then.

Do you know who she is?

Not familiar scent. But fear. Much fear.

Was she running?

No. Carried.

By Jacoby?

Not sure. Strange scent.

Strange like what?

Cesar looked at her, and for a moment Callie was certain she could discern bafflement in his calm eyes.

Strange. Old. Dark. Black. Evil.

It surprised Callie more than a little that Cesar gave her that answer; even with all their investigations over years, he had never used the word “evil,” and she would have said it was a concept he didn’t understand.

Clearly, she would have been wrong.

Bad. Very bad. Hungry bad. Needing bad.

Needing what?

Needing . . . power. Needing energy.

Why?

To escape. And . . .

And what?

Fight.

Fight what? Fight who?

Not sure. Fight. Escape. Dig.

Callie could feel the strain as her dog tried to sort through impressions and concepts that were familiar to his canine mind, and others that were clearly difficult for him to understand.

“It’s okay,” she murmured aloud, resting her free hand briefly on his head. “This is my job too.”

And that job had just become a lot more complicated.

There was darkness and evil; she felt that herself.

But there was also blood, and fear.

And a girl.

So who had passed this way in the last couple of hours, in darkness and in silence, and bleeding?

Was there another danger on this mountain, or had Cole Jacoby become much, much worse than a bank robber?

Can we help the girl?
Callie had to ask.

No.
Cesar’s response was instant.

She’s already dead?

Dead. Gone. Worse.

Callie was almost afraid to ask, but steeled herself and did.

Worse than dead?

Pain. So much pain. It needed energy. It made her afraid.

Jacoby?

The evil. Inside. Becoming.

Becoming what?

More evil.

SEVEN

Special Agent Tony Harte was frowning at a map pinned to an evidence board in the cramped room they were using here at this small police station in a little town an hour or so from Boston. He had been working on a geographical profile, marking both abduction and dump sites for a string of murders that, so far, numbered eight.

Rather unusually, all the victims were men.

Also unusually, their profile pointed to a female killer.

“Think I found her comfort zone,” Tony announced. When only silence greeted that, he turned to face the only other person in the room.

Bishop had been working his way through a stack of evidence folders spread out on the small conference table, but he was motionless now, staring into space in a way that was both familiar to Tony and yet still unsettling.

Watching a premonition from the outside was like that.

Tony had a fair enough idea about what it was like from the inside to be glad precognition wasn’t one of his abilities.

He waited patiently, until the pale gray eyes of his boss slowly lost the weirdly metallic sheen that always accompanied a vision, until some of the color returned to his lean face and the scar down his left cheek, almost invisible unless something had disturbed him, became less noticeable.

“Something I should worry about?” Tony asked finally, very deliberately keeping his tone light.

Bishop blinked, looked at Tony for a moment as if he didn’t see him—and then he was completely back, completely normal. For him.

“Maybe something we should all worry about,” he said.

That surprised Tony, since his queries at such times usually earned him no more than an evasive nonanswer that was very characteristic of the Special Crimes Unit chief. “What is it?”

“The situation in Tennessee.”

Tony thought about that for a moment, then asked wryly, “Which part? You’ve got Callie and Cesar there in the wilds of the mountains, and Haven sent in—Brinkman, wasn’t it?—as well. To go after Jacoby, figure out if he used some psychic ability to escape and, if so, what it is and how powerful. Presumably get him back into somebody’s official custody before too much longer, and maybe even find all that missing money. And then you’ve got Hollis and Reese over in the next county so Hollis can work on her medium skills
and
take the only kind of break we all know she’d take from working active cases.”

He eyed his boss, waiting.

And then Bishop said a remarkable thing.

“I may have miscalculated.”

Tony gave that the silent respect it deserved, then said slowly, “So who’s in the hot seat?”

“All of them.”

“All of— What, for the same reason?”

“I’m not sure.”

Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever been rendered speechless twice in a few short moments, even by Bishop.

Seemingly unaware of the effect he was having on Tony, Bishop said, “We can’t even contact Callie or Luther unless and until she reports in, they come down off the mountain and find a landline, or they find one of the very few sweet spots on that mountain with cell reception. Hollis and Reese, on the other hand, might not have decent cell service, given how far out they are, but are currently guests in a private home with a landline, so they can contact us—and we can contact them.”

“And tell them what?” Tony asked slowly. “What’s the danger? Is Jacoby more dangerous than you thought? And even if he is, could it affect Hollis and Reese a mountain or two away? Or is Hollis in danger of letting something really bad in, like what happened to Quentin and Diana?”
4

“I don’t know,” Bishop said slowly. “I’m not even sure a warning of any kind might not do more harm than good.”

“Some things have to happen?”

“Maybe.”

“Boss . . . not having all the facts is one thing, and a thing we’re more or less used to, but not even knowing there’s danger about is something else entirely. Callie and Brinkman at least know there’s a potential threat; Hollis and Reese aren’t on a case.”

“No, but neither one is going to treat the situation lightly, Reese because he’s always wired and alert and Hollis because she’s wary of opening herself up too much. Even without any warning, they’ll take care.”

“You hope.”

“It’s a reasonable assumption, given their training and abilities.”

“And you’ve spent a lot of time teaching us not to assume anything, especially if we’re not in possession of all the facts.” Tony barely hesitated before hammering home at least one point. “Which, working for you, is most of the time.”

Bishop reached for one of the file folders on the table and opened it, saying calmly, “Well, then, no one involved will assume danger might not face them around the next corner.”

Tony thought about expressing his feelings. He thought long and hard about it. But in the end, he turned back to his geographical profiling without saying another word, certain only that no matter how tangled or enigmatic they looked from the outside, or how many curve balls fate threw into the mix, Bishop’s plans had a way of working out.

Most of the time.

* * *

HOLLIS REALLY HAD
intended to go back to sleep, but in the minutes after Reese returned to his room to shower and get ready for the day, she found herself wide awake—and still conscious of that creeping unease.

Giving up finally, she got out of bed and got herself ready for the day, a routine that took very little time; she wasn’t a woman who fussed about her appearance, and since she’d showered the night before, that was a step easily skipped. She washed her face and brushed her teeth quickly, as usual, and even after years avoided her reflection in the mirror.

And those blue eyes that still looked . . . alien . . . in her face.

Stupid. She should be used to them by now. But she wasn’t. And she didn’t know if she ever would be.

Pushing that thought aside for maybe the thousandth time, she ran a brush through her short hair and got dressed in jeans and a loose sweater and slid her feet into comfortable flats.

She paused at the doorway to the shared sitting room and could dimly hear the shower in Reese’s room. And then heard it shut off.

There was no clear plan in Hollis’s mind, no intent to explore or sense that she should. Just that general unease that Reese had picked up on, something she tried very hard, now, to tamp down inside herself. Even if she did tend to broadcast under stress, there was no reason she couldn’t practice at least a bit of self-control and maybe even build a shield for . . . most of the time.

Bishop had told her she could do it, and if anybody would know about that sort of thing, it would be him.

Of course, he hadn’t told her
how
.

Typical.

Hollis slipped out of her room, closing the door quietly behind her. She wasn’t surprised to find, in the dark old house, scattered lamps burning on tables and chests in the wide hallway. Maybe on timers. Or maybe left on all night. It was still very early, and she seriously doubted that either Owen or Anna was up. They didn’t seem the up-with-the-chickens sort. Just the staff, probably.

Not that she had any idea who or how many made up the staff that cared for this huge house. She had seen only the butler, Thomas, and a silent youngish maid who had helped serve dinner the night before.

There had to be more, if only daily help. A cook, maids. Maybe a housekeeper to oversee everything. Just keeping up with the main part of the house would take a small army, never mind the two wings of assorted rooms and bedroom suites.

Their rooms were in the East Wing, which also housed the family “apartments” that were on the ground floor.

Hollis vaguely remembered some of the conversation going on around her sleepy self at dinner, and she was almost sure Anna had made the comment that the West Wing of the house was closed most of the year and opened up only during the weeks in spring and summer when the public was admitted.

During those weeks, Owen and Anna were . . . “not in residence” was the term Hollis thought she remembered. An estate manager was in charge of the place, plus other administrative staff, and the family was gone, presumably visiting elsewhere, like maybe a city or the beach or somewhere that wasn’t to hell and gone in the mountains of Tennessee.

And while they were gone, the Alexander mansion was turned into a very exclusive hotel. Alexander House. Full service, Owen had said, glum rather than boasting. He’d have preferred a bed-and-breakfast, but given how far they were from anything resembling a good restaurant, it was full service or don’t bother.

Apparently, they bothered to the point that the place was booked up for all of the coming season, with a few reservations already made for next year. To hell and gone as a vacation spot clearly held attractions Hollis couldn’t appreciate.

Somebody had mentioned extensive gardens the night before, she thought. Said to be gorgeous spring through summer. Tennis courts, a swimming pool. And horses. She remembered mention of a stable and horses, with miles of mountain trails. All of which added numerous employees to the growing number of staff Hollis had been compiling in her head. Not just staff working in the house, but gardeners or landscapers, people who cared for horses and tack, and probably a
lot
of purely maintenance people inside and out, to keep this place in tiptop shape and running smoothly.

Most employees would be full time and year-round in order to keep this place at its best. Even during the off-season, Alexander House was probably the major employer for that little town with its odd name of Devil’s Gap and its apparent lack of amenities to attract visitors.

Offering plenty of amenities plus the opulence of an earlier era, Hollis supposed, would attract to Alexander House plenty of visitors looking for quiet and luxury and excellent service. She supposed all that could offset the almost eerie isolation of the place.

Or maybe that was just her take, the eeriness of this place. She was, after all and even trying her best to shield, fully conscious of spiritual energy hovering at the fringes of her awareness. A lot of it. She was, in fact, surprised that Alexander House was not one of the places frequented by paranormal investigators. But it wasn’t, at least according to their briefing.

The briefing given by Bishop.

And when has he ever told any of us the whole truth?

The thought was more resigned than angry or even irritated; by now, it was a character trait in the unit chief familiar to if not expected by all who worked with him.

Hollis began moving down the hall toward the main part of the house, frowning. She was reasonably sure she would have remembered if either Owen or Anna had mentioned the house being haunted. In fact, she was sure one of them would have said something about it the evening before when she had seen the spirit of Jamie Bell.

And later, talking about hotel visitors, surely someone would have mentioned the draw of a reputedly haunted Alexander House?

Then again, between Owen’s scorn for the paranormal and the business sense that undoubtedly told him he could charge visitors more for luxury and service than for ghosts, perhaps it was not something discussed.

Or even . . . known?

Jamie Bell had waited a long time, after all, for help in passing on her message to Owen; if any genuine medium had visited here in all the years since that tragic death, Hollis had to believe Jamie would have come through, and if not her then certainly someone else—because there were others. Surely at least one genuine medium would have tuned in to the right frequency to let
someone
come through.

Or maybe Anna Alexander really was the first family member to actually consider the paranormal, was driven to do so, and she was so focused on trying to contact her husband—and had clearly had little luck either in finding genuine mediums or one able to tune in to this place—that Hollis doubted she’d given any thought at all to contact beyond reaching Daniel.

Probably one reason she’d been so surprised when Hollis had made contact with Jamie. The idea that there might have been other spirits waiting about had clearly never occurred to her.

So . . . no family stories of hauntings, or if there were, certainly no recent ones. It was a surprise, that realization. Granted, Hollis was considered a strong medium, but she would have thought
someone
either living in or visiting this house over decades would have experienced something paranormal. That was almost always the case in haunted places; sooner or later, someone saw or heard something eerie to tell someone else about the experience.

Or just bolted out the door without looking back.

But there were doors—and then there were
doors
.

“Don’t open the door too wide or leave it open too long,” Hollis muttered, mostly under her breath. “Thanks, Brooke, that’s swell—except that I don’t seem to have a whole hell of a lot of control right now.”

“May I help you, ma’am?”

Hollis nearly jumped out of her skin and tried not to look embarrassed when she realized she was being addressed by a maid in a neat uniform, apparently carrying folded linen.

“Oh. No, thanks. That is . . . I was just exploring a bit. If that’s okay?” she added tentatively.

“Certainly, ma’am.” The maid was serene. “If you need it, there’s a map of the house and grounds downstairs, in the top drawer of the foyer table by the front door; it’s printed up for the hotel guests, but private guests have found it useful as well.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Breakfast is served at eight thirty, but if you wish something before then there’s a bell in the dining room. Anyone will be happy to serve you.”

Hollis could only imagine the consternation an order for breakfast was likely to cause in the kitchen, given that it was barely six
A.M.
, but she merely nodded and silently told her growling stomach to shut up.

“Okay, thanks. Thanks very much.”

The maid nodded, smiled, and then bobbed a curtsy, turned toward what Hollis assumed was another bedroom door, a closed door—and vanished through the solid oak.