Seeing Is Believing (8 page)

Curious, he watched Diana after he removed his hand from her back and quietly closed the door. She moved to the center of the room and stood very still. Remaining silent, Wes realized she was picking up on something. He searched his own senses but felt nothing in the silence of this large casita filled with expensive, overstuffed furniture and art objects.

“I feel a lot of anger in here,” Diana said in a low voice. Her eyes closed, she slowly turned, sensing, picking up information on the intuitive level. “There.” Opening her eyes, she pointed in the direction of a large pink-and-white-striped satin sofa. “The anger is really strong here, around the sofa.” She walked over and slowly moved her hand from side to side, allowing her ultrasensitive palms to pick up information.

Wes walked over and held out his hand in the same general area. His frown deepened. “I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s okay.”

He looked more closely at the sofa. “Officer Thomas said they found nothing in the casita. Ruth Horner and her luggage had literally vanished.”

“I don’t think so.” Frowning, Diana closed her eyes and placed both hands on one of the sofa’s plump seat cushions. She continued to feel, to receive impressions. “Fight. There was a terrific fight. I feel her anguish.” Jerking her hands off the couch, Diana straightened and shivered. “A horrible fight.”

Wes moved closer, hearing the tremor in her hushed tone. Without thinking, he placed a hand on her shoulder and felt the tension thrumming through her. It was difficult for him to think that she might be making all of this up. He already felt he knew and trusted Diana enough to realize she felt something.

“What kind of fight? Physical? Verbal?”

Releasing a sigh, she twisted her head to look up into Wes’s grave features. She liked having his hand on her shoulder, and the feeling of stability it gave her. Even more, she liked what she saw mirrored in his eyes: concern. How could she ever have thought he was violent as Bob had been? The violence she felt around him had come from his experiences in Delta Force, one of the most lethal military teams in the world.

“I don’t know. At least, not yet. Let me touch some more things….”

Wes looked around. “While you’re doing that, I’m going to nose around. I don’t trust the local cops to see everything. They must have missed something.”

“Okay.” Diana felt him move away, and she closed her eyes again. By closing them, she automatically switched to the right hemisphere of her brain, where her sensing equipment was located. She could feel more by moving her hands lightly across fabric, a desk or chair, than by looking at it. Information, sometimes pictures, would flow into her mind’s eye, that screen where her third eye was located. When she opened her eyes, the pictures or symbols disappeared.

She moved slowly, sensing, feeling. The anger was worst around the sofa, although in the bedroom, she felt a confusing mix of emotions. Touching a pale pink satin comforter that covered the king-size bed, she felt tears, sadness. When she skimmed her left palm upward toward the pillow, the sensation became stronger. By the time Diana actually felt the pillow, the one she was sure Ruth Horner had slept on, she wanted to cry herself.

“Are you okay?” Wes stood in the entrance to the bedroom. He saw the grief-stricken expression on Diana’s face as she held a pillow against her body.

“Y-yes.” She put the pillow back down and wrapped her arms around herself. Wes came over and stood inches from her. When he placed his hands on her arms, she whispered, “Ruth Horner was a very sad woman. She cried so much. So much…”

Wes tightened his grip on Diana’s arms. Her voice was shaken, and he felt her empathy for Ruth Horner. “Lean on me,” he entreated softly near her ear. And she did. Wes stifled a groan deep within him as she leaned shyly against him and he took her weight. She felt good. Everything felt so right with her. She was warm and soft and rounded in all the right places, fitting perfectly against the hard, more angular planes of his body. Even her hair smelled fragrant—a scent he could swear was gardenia. Without thinking, he placed a kiss against her thick, black hair, shining in the light from the stained-glass windows behind them.

Diana felt his kiss, felt the pressure of his mouth against her hair and trembled. Not from fear, but from anticipation. If only…if only he was kissing her lips. Her fingers were firm on her arms, and he was stalwart, his body hard but at the same time comforting. She closed her eyes, surrendering to him in every way—although she knew he didn’t realize it. Wes wasn’t much of an intuitive, not perceptive enough at reading body language to realize the gift of herself she’d just given to him. But it didn’t matter, because he was opening up. With time, she knew he would be able to read even her most subtle body signals. Did they have that time?

Opening her eyes, Diana forced herself away from Wes, away from the strength and invitation of his body. Although she ached to turn and slide her arms around his neck, she fought the urge. She must concentrate on the job at hand.

“Earlier I picked up a very different feeling near the clothes closet,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice that she was blushing. Her cheeks felt hot, and she kept her back turned to him as she moved toward the closet.

Wes nodded and stood for a moment, absorbing the last sensations of Diana’s body against him. The moment had been too short, and he felt denied. Did she? He turned, but she was moving away from him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she seemed a trifle nervous. Perhaps because of his boldness?

Wes didn’t have much experience with Diana’s kind of woman—a woman who’d been hurt by another man. He was terribly unsure about how to approach her. What was appropriate? What wasn’t? Shaking his head, he followed her over to the light blue French doors. The closet was large, covering half the wall in front of them. When Diana turned, he felt instant elation. Her cheeks were bright pink, and her eyes… He groaned to himself. Her eyes were a soft, velvety brown with gold flecks. Yes, she’d liked him holding her, kissing her hair. Wes wanted more. Much more. Suppressing his clamoring needs, he put them aside and focused on what she was saying.

“When I came into this room, I felt a lot of confused energy. I felt repugnance and disgust, along with a lot of grief.” Lifting her hands, she added, “I don’t know what to make of it, Wes.”

“What did the bed area feel like?”

“Grief, sadness.”

“Can you conjecture why?”

“She was sad. Crying over something.”

Scratching his jaw, he said, “She was married once, you know.”

“What caused the divorce?”

“I don’t know. I asked the same question of the chief of the Psi-Lab, and he said only that her husband, Richard Horner, didn’t like the long hours she spent at work.”

Diana lightly ran her hand along one French door. “I see.”

“What do you feel here?”

“Something…odd. Dangerous.” She shook her head. “Wait, let me see if I can be more specific.” She faced the closet, closed her eyes and placed both hands on the French doors. For a minute she was silent.

Wes waited patiently. He saw Diana’s brow furrow and her mouth curve downward. “What is it?”

Jerking her hands away from the closet, she whispered, “Something
evil
is in there!” She shook her hands to fling off the energy they’d accumulated by having contact with the closet doors.

Frowning, Wes pulled her away. “Stay back,” he warned, before carefully opening one of the doors. It was dark inside the closet, but he knew in a casita like this, where no expense was spared, there would be a light switch. Fumbling, he found it. Once the light was on, he hauled both giant doors outward and folded them back for a better view.

“Look!” Diana gasped, pointing up to the right-hand corner of the closet about the clothes rack.

Wes tensed momentarily, his hand automatically going for his revolver beneath his jacket. His gaze settled on the red object in the corner. “What the hell…”

“Wait! Don’t touch it!”

He glanced at her as she came over to where he stood. “Why? What is it?”

“I think it’s a rattle of some kind.”

“So?” He itched to reach up and retrieve it.

Gulping, Diana stood on tiptoe to get a better look at it. “It is a rattle! A ceremonial one, from what I can tell. Wes, don’t touch it, please. It could be dangerous.”

“How?” There was disbelief in his voice. It looked like a gourd that had been sloppily painted a red color, with two black feathers attached to the wooden handle.

Gripping his arm, she kept her gaze fastened on the gourd. “Rattles are like loaded guns, Wes. You don’t handle them unless you know exactly what they are and what you’re doing.”

“Explain.” He was fully aware of her fingers digging into his arm, as if she was afraid he wouldn’t listen to her warning.

“Rattles are like pipes—they’re all different. Usually, they’re made out of a gourd of some kind, or a turtle shell or deer hoof. People making rattles, if they know what they’re doing, will fill them with stones. Those stones usually come from around an anthill.”

“Do you mean it’s dangerous if someone throws it at me?” he asked wryly, a grin crossing his mouth.

Diana’s heart wouldn’t stop pounding. She sensed real danger and wasn’t in the mood for his teasing. “This isn’t funny, Wes! I’ve seen people pick up a rattle and get thrown clear across a room, unconscious by the time they hit the other wall. Rattles are nothing to play around with. If the maker of a rattle is a good person, it can be beautiful, healing and powerful. But if a sorcerer—a person with evil intent—makes one, the rattle can kill. Please, you’ve got to believe me!”

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Wes muttered, desperately wanting to hold the object.

“That rattle has no markings, no symbols on it.”

“So?”

“Usually the very powerful rattles have no markings.”

“It has feathers.”

“They look like buzzard feathers to me,” Diana muttered, craning her neck. “It’s a rattle of transformation.”

“Meaning?”

She wiped her damp hands on the sides of her skirt. “That rattle was made to transform something.”

“Give me an example.”

Nervously, Diana backed away from the closet. She was grateful Wes came with her. Above all, she didn’t want him picking up the rattle without a knowledge of what he was doing. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Healers usually possess a transformation rattle. If the rattle is shaken near a sick person, the vibration of the stones striking the gourd can help break or dissolve invisible blocks in the patient’s aura and make them well.”

“That’s not evil,” Wes said, sitting down beside her, folding his hands between his long thighs.

“No,” Diana agreed, “it’s not. But I’ve seen my mother come up against both male and female sorcerers from time to time, and they always use a gourd of transformation to try and get her.”

“Get her?”

“Kill her.”

Wes stared at her, dumbfounded.

Diana pointed to the gourd. “If that is a sorcerer’s gourd and the wrong person picks it up, it could be fatal.”

His eyes grew round.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Bitterly, Diana rose.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It shows in your eyes, Wes.” Frustrated, she whispered, “That rattle is
dangerous!
I don’t want you picking it up! Do you understand?”

“If it’s that dangerous, what is it doing here? Besides, it might have fingerprints on it that can give us a lead.”

“I don’t know. And it may or may not have fingerprints on it.”

“Did Horner buy it? Was it placed here and she picked it up? What if she did pick up a gourd of that power? What would it do to her?”

Confused, Diana shook her head and opened her hands. “Wes, I don’t have all the answers. I wish I did. The feeling around that rattle is evil, that’s all I can tell you.”

“I find it odd the police didn’t find it,” he muttered, rising to his full height and going over to the closet to stare at the red gourd. “Of course, knowing they’re local cops, I’m not surprised. One of them probably opened the closet doors and looked in but didn’t turn on the light. You’d never see that gourd unless the light was on.”

Rubbing her brow, Diana felt a terrible sense of dread. “I’m going to have to hold it, whether I want to or not.”

Wes glanced at her sharply.

“You just told me it was dangerous.”

“It is—to you.” And maybe to her, but Diana didn’t say that. She saw the aggravation, the question and disbelief in Wes’s eyes. A part of her was angry, because she knew what she sensed wasn’t wrong. Diana couldn’t give Wes the full answers he was seeking. Watching him place his hands defiantly on his hips, as if to dispute her right to touch the gourd, she said testily, “I’m in a position to know how to protect myself before I touch it.”

“And I’m not?” Wes didn’t quite
not
believe Diana about the gourd. He couldn’t explain it, but he’d felt unsettled ever since they’d opened the closet to reveal the damn thing. There was no explanation for his feelings, but his gut was clenching, and that was all the red-flag warning he needed.

“No, you don’t,” she flung back heatedly, moving forward. Before he could step into her path to stop her, she stretched upward and grabbed the rattle. She couldn’t risk his death, or his insanity, if he touched a sorcerer’s gourd without proper training or protection. But did she have enough protection? Diana wasn’t sure, but she said a swift prayer to the Great Spirit and wrapped her fingers around the object before Wes could stop her.

Wes cried out her name, but it was too late. He watched as Diana picked up the gourd. Almost instantly, he saw her go ashen. When she staggered backward, as if her hands had melted onto the rattle, he reached out for her.

“NO!” Diana gasped. “Don’t touch me!”
Oh, no!
She was off balance. The power of the gourd was overwhelming. Shocking. She felt a violent, burning heat sting the palm of her hand and race up her arm. Breathing violently, she gasped again and again. The gourd was trying to shut off her ability to breathe! Invisible strands wound around her throat, and she gagged. Somehow, she had to get rid of the thing, but it clung to her like glue.