The Collector (29 page)

C
arin had been given very specific instructions. She was to wait outside Morgan’s office until Gina was completely under. Only then would she be called inside as a witness.

Spirit guides. The ancient Greeks called them daimons, spirits that intervened between man and the gods. Socrates was said to have had a daimon guiding him throughout his life. It was only later that the church changed all daimons into evil demons, and protector spirits became angels.

Channeling, remote healing, depossession work. Carin didn’t care what label you put on what was about to happen. Communicating with nonphysical entities was as old as man himself.

There was even a branch of science, neurotheology, that studied the effect of religion on the brain. Carin was familiar with the work of Dr. Michael Persinger, who had stimulated the temporal lobes of volunteers, using a weak magnetic field. His subjects had sensed a spiritual “presence.” People having temporal lobe seizures—temporal lobe epilepsy—experienced the same phenomena, religious revelations or hallucinations, even if they were atheists. In theory, the human brain was ready-made for a spiritual experience.

People like Gina took it one step further. In a deep trance, she could communicate with those who had passed over. Today, Carin would witness Morgan guiding just such a session, using Gina as a “medium” through which he could communicate with her spirit guides.

The door to Morgan’s office opened and Carin was shown inside by his assistant. With the blinds closed, there was only a glow from one strategically placed light, giving the office the feel of a child’s room with a night-light. The woman indicated a chair set to the side and a few feet away from a leather couch, where Gia appeared to be in a deep trance. Carin took her seat as the woman left the darkened room.

Carin knew what to expect. She’d seen Morgan act as hypnotherapist before. She would never forget his final session with Estelle.

After years of estrangement, the two had once again found each other as parents needing to interact for the welfare of their brilliant progeny. Carin had certainly benefited from their renewed relationship. So had Estelle, who again sought Morgan’s help in finding the Eye.

During that last session, Estelle’s spirit guides had given their final clues…as well as the possible consequences if she should find the Eye. Morgan was convinced Estelle’s obsession with the Eye had become too dangerous, while Estelle had airily dismissed his fears, focusing only on her endgame.

Carin remembered Morgan grabbing Estelle by her shoulders and giving her a hard shake, saying, “What if I lose you again?”

For her part, Estelle had looked calmly into his eyes and said, “There must always be a sacrifice.”

Morgan had stepped back as if she’d struck him. Carin had never seen such a look of pain and betrayal.

That was the last time Morgan saw Estelle, his lover and the mother of his child. Now, Carin watched Gia quietly on the couch, reminded of that final session, daughter and mother looked that much alike.

There was a strobe light aimed in Gia’s direction. Morgan used it to facilitate a deep trance, assuring the brain-mind response necessary for a deep hypnosis. Sounds of the ocean played from hidden speakers, waves crashing, seagulls in the distance, the wind. Carin knew there would also be synthesized the-tawave sounds playing behind the music.

“Gia, I want you to humbly request assistance from your spirit guides. Repeat after me. I call out to my spirit guides.”

The exercise continued as Morgan led Gia deeper into her trance. But the greatest surprise came when Morgan asked his daughter to invoke her spirit guide by name.

In a soft, sure voice, Gia said, “I ask for your help, Estelle. I beseech it and mark it and so it is.”

Carin saw the shock on Morgan’s face. For a moment, she wondered if he might put an end to the session. Instead, he turned to Carin and gave a short nod.

She took the plastic bag from inside her satchel. She and Morgan had discussed their course of action beforehand, the most successful path to discovering the identity of the killer. They both knew the danger of what they were about to do.

Carin took the bead in her hand. In this light, it glowed a deep red, the cat’s-eye line of white very distinct. This was the bead that had been inside the bird’s beak, the one found in Mimi Tran’s mouth. Carin handed it to Morgan.

He seemed to warm the bead in his palm. She began counting silently in her head, telling herself she had to give him at least sixty seconds before she intervened. This couldn’t be an easy thing for Morgan.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine…

Still, he kept the bead, just watching his daughter.

Carin said softly, “It’s what she’d want, Morgan.”

He looked down at the bead in his hand. “Yes. It’s also what her mother wanted and look what happened to her.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if I did it?” Carin asked.

He shook his head. With a deep breath, he picked up his daughter’s limp hand and placed the bead in the middle of her palm.

Immediately, her fingers snapped shut around it like a trap. On the couch, her body became rigid.

Suddenly, Gia arched, gripped by a seizure.

“You’re at the beach house, your safe place,” Morgan said in a surprisingly soothing voice, keeping his cool despite the sight of his daughter’s distress. “You can hear the ocean, smell the salt air. Your mother is there, your spirit guide. Take her hand, Gia.”

Again, Gia’s back arched, coming completely off the couch, her teeth grinding together.

“Take…her…hand, Gia,” Morgan repeated, urgently now. “Your mother is right there. Take her hand. Take your mother’s hand.”

Just as suddenly as the attack came on, Gia’s body fell limp onto the couch.

“Your mother is there, isn’t she?” Morgan continued, his breath coming hard. “She’s helping you.”

Gia’s eyes opened wide.

“There must always be a sacrifice,” she said, in a strange, gutteral voice Carin didn’t recognize. “This much, you know.”

Carin glanced at Morgan.

There must always be a sacrifice
. Estelle’s final words to him.

“Sometimes,” Gia continued in that same contralto, “the sacrifice is planned, a formal occasion to honor the gods. The Mayan priests draw their own blood by piercing their tongues, ears or genitals. The Aztecs dedicate their sacrifice to the god Huehueteotl, the god of fire. Victims are drugged and thrown into a blaze at the top of a ceremonial platform. Before they die, they are dragged out with hooks. Their living heart is pulled out and thrown back into the fire.”

Gia made the gesture of grabbing her own heart from her chest with the hand not holding the stone. She still kept a death grip on the bead. There was a fierce smile on her face.

“But sometimes, the sacrifice isn’t planned. The victim presents herself. The divine becomes understood only in that moment of pure clarity. Puerto Rico, the young Madonna drowning in the waters of St. John.”

“Gia, I want you to wake up now,” Morgan said. “I’m going to count to three slowly.”

Carin could see Morgan had had enough. He was pulling Gia out from the trance. “Morgan, are you sure?”

“She’s nonresponsive,” he said. “One.” He glanced at Carin, saying with a look what he thought:
I can’t do this!
“Two.”

“Morgan. Those women, they’re dead. And there will be more.”

“Three.”

“Rocket lies at your feet.” Gia kept speaking in that odd voice, sounding almost sad now.

“Three, Gia. I said three! You must wake up now!”

“He isn’t going to fight as much as you thought. Such a big man. You thought he would at least fight for his life. But he kneels before you like a lamb to the slaughter.”

Carin rose. She came to stand next to Morgan, grabbing his hand, stopping him from his futile attempt to waken Gia.

“It’s him,” she told Morgan. “She’s in the killer’s head.”

Another killing?

“For the first time, you use a gun,” Gia continued.

“Shit,” Carin whispered.

“You shoot him in the back of the head. Brains spray across the white carpet. That’s what you like best. The art of death.”

“Who are you?” Carin asked.

But Gia ignored her. “But you don’t see the beauty this time. You don’t understand the pain you feel. Do you actually care for Rocket? Is this regret?”

Morgan pushed Carin aside. “Sit down and shut up,” he ordered. “Or I will personally haul you out of this room.”

“But he is David’s underling and therefore tainted.” The voice seemed to argue with itself. “Only now, standing over his body, you feel no triumph.” Gia reached up and touched her own face. “And there are tears in your eyes. Poor Rocket. Poor, lovely man.”

Carin walked to a corner, ignoring any protest from Morgan. She was calling the police station. “Detective Cabral. We have a problem. It’s happening now. I mean right
now!
Another killing. Does the name Rocket mean anything to anyone?”

“You remind yourself that suffering
should
be part of the experience.” Gia’s voice was higher pitched, her breath coming harder and faster. “Your pain emulates the suffering of those who came before you.”

“Help me, dammit!” Morgan stood. He grabbed Gia’s hand, trying to dislodge the stone she held in her grip.

“They, too, evolved into gods. Without proper suffering, you cannot reach the next level.”

On the couch, another seizure gripped Gia’s body. Morgan held her down by her shoulders. He looked at Carin. “Please!”

Estelle’s daughter,
Carin thought. She dropped the cell phone and ran to Gia’s side.

“You know that there must be more pain—more sacrifice!” Gia was screaming now in a strange, high-pitched voice.

Carin tried to pry her fingers apart and grab the stone. When that didn’t work, she attempted to slip her own finger inside, to push it out.

Morgan was whispering into his daughter’s ear, beseeching her to look for her mother. That he knew Estelle was there. That Estelle would help her.

“And you are ready!” Gia screamed.

“I can’t get it out of her hand,” Carin told Morgan.

“Estelle,” Morgan shouted to Gia. “Help me, Estelle. Help our daughter.”

Suddenly, Gia sat straight up, the force of her body throwing both Morgan and Carin to the floor.

She looked like a mannequin, sitting in that impossible position, legs straight out, hands straight down, her back stiff as a board.

The hand holding the stone opened. The bead dropped to the rug.

Gia turned her head to look at Morgan and Carin, her eyes still wide open.

“Don’t
ever
do that to our child again, Morgan,” she commanded.

“Estelle.”

“She’s in danger,” Gia said.

Morgan stood, catching his breath. Carin stayed where she was, watching in awe.

“I know, darling,” Morgan said, returning to his daughter’s side. He sat on the couch beside her. “But like you, she’s quite stubborn.”

Gia cocked her head, the gesture almost birdlike. “Well, then you’ll just have to be stronger, Morgan. She needs you. Stella needs you.
I
need you.”

Morgan sighed, a relieved smile on his face. “Then for God’s sake, my love, help me. Tell me once and for all, so I can let Gia know and she can stop playing Russian roulette with her spirit.”

He took Gia’s hand in his. She moved like someone who was not familiar with her own body, watching with great curiosity as she let Morgan bring her hand to his lips and kiss it.

“It’s time, Estelle,” he said. “Well past time. Tell me. Tell us all so we can stop him.” Holding her hand over his heart, Morgan asked, “Who killed you, Estelle? Who took you from me?”

G
ia painted in broad strokes, her arm sweeping across the five-foot-tall canvas before her. Paint splatters covered her jeans, arms and hair. She mixed colors feverishly, returning to the canvas she could barely see for the tears in her eyes.

She remembered her mother’s hair, the inky curls Estelle hid under hats and tortured away in sensible hairstyles. Gia had stick-straight hair courtesy of Morgan. But not Stella.

Gia and her daughter had Estelle’s eyes. Sorceress eyes, Thomas had called them.

On the canvas, Gia painted two dark holes where Estelle had once had eyes.

That’s what Thomas had done to her mother. He had taken her eyes; he’d put them in a plastic Baggie and kept them as a souvenir.

And now Morgan wanted her to believe
she
was wrong? All these years, tormented by visions that Thomas would find her, kill her and her daughter—just as he’d killed Estelle—and it didn’t mean anything?

“
You’re
wrong, Daddy,” she cried out. “
You’re
wrong!”

There was no one else in the room. She was talking to herself, as if hearing the assurance out loud made it true.

“It’s Thomas. It’s always been Thomas.”

Her visions had started three years ago. But it wasn’t until she dreamed of Mimi Tran’s murder that she’d understood. She’d been given a choice by her guides—a terrible choice—but a choice nevertheless. She had this one chance to stop her mother’s killer and save her daughter.

That’s why she’d gone to the police. Estelle had reached out to her, letting her know how to save herself and Stella from Thomas.

But after the death of Velvet Tien and Xuan Du, Gia wasn’t so sure.
What if I’m wrong?
In her vision, Thomas wanted to kill only her.

And now Morgan, her own father, claimed she’d made a terrible mistake.

She’d gone to him to try and understand. But instead of focusing the images in her head, her father only contradicted everything she’d come to believe. She’d woken to find Morgan holding her hand. Behind him, Carin was already listening to the recording of the session, taking notes.

One look into her father’s eyes and she’d realized something was very wrong.

“It’s not Thomas, sweetheart,” he said. “It never was.”

Now, she brushed away her tears impatiently. She focused on the painting, on those black circles she’d painted on her mother’s face. She still believed she could find her truth here, on this canvas.

It was Thomas. He as much as admitted it to me through my visions.

That’s what she’d told Morgan, who’d just sat there staring at her, shaking his head. That final day, the clues her mother had left. Everything fit together….

Gia had driven home from San Diego against Morgan’s wishes. The first thing she’d done was pull out a fresh canvas. She’d mixed the pigments, searching deep inside her soul for answers.

Certainly, Morgan was wrong. Oh, he’d played the tape for her—she’d insisted on it. She recognized her voice.

Thomas didn’t kill me. I died by the hand of another. Find my eyes and you’ll find my killer.

“Gia?”

She didn’t stop painting, focused only on the image she was painting. She didn’t want to lose the thread of the story. She was close. So close.

But Seven wasn’t waiting. He grabbed her hand, the one holding the paintbrush. He turned her around to face him.

“Or should I say Gina?”

She twisted her hand free. The paintbrush dropped to the concrete of her garage studio.

With both her hands, she shoved hard into his chest, pushing him away.

“Get out of here, Seven!”

He grabbed her wrists and pulled her to him. He looked just as out of control as she felt.

“Gina Tyrell. Daughter of Estelle Fegaris and Morgan Tyrell. Fiancée of Thomas Crane, the archaeology student once accused of killing your mother. Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“Tell you?” She threw her head back, staring up at him. “Why should I tell you anything? Don’t you get it? I haven’t even told my daughter!”

But she could see he wouldn’t stop. He had come here to have his say. She’d lied; she’d used him.

“What was it, Gia? This Crane guy starts killing psychics in some sick game to get you to reveal yourself? He tracks you here, but he needs to flush you out. So he starts with Mimi Tran, knowing you couldn’t resist getting involved—because you’ve known all along who was behind the killings and why.”

She shook her head. He tightened his grip on her wrists, giving her a hard shake.

“Was I part of the plan? Making sure a cop was right here with you, watching your back when the shit hit the fan? Let’s just seal the deal with sex? Make sure he’s on my side?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to make that choice,” she whispered. “It’s me or him. You could never understand someone believing that it’s better to kill than be killed? That’s why you can’t go to see your brother. You can’t look into his eyes and hear his side of the story. To you, it would all sound like excuses.”

“Excuses?” His eyes grew wide in disbelief. “It’s more than that, sweetheart. He
killed
Scott.” He pulled her in close, hurting her.

“But Scott
would
have blackmailed Ricky. He would threaten to tell…expose Ricky. Let everyone know that he was having sex with his male nurse, not only cheating on his wife but flat broke because he’d mismanaged the business.” She leaned into him. “That wasn’t death to your brother? Losing everything he’d worked for his whole life—his marriage, his son…his reputation? That wouldn’t have killed Ricky?”

“
Anything
was better than what Ricky did,” Seven shouted. “He ended a man’s life. He destroyed two families. He destroyed
his
family.”

“That’s right.” She was screaming right back at him, the tears still there. “You can’t even imagine it, can you? Someone crossing that line? Going from a normal, caring human being to a cornered animal? No one gets to cross that line. Certainly not your perfect brother. Only, what if that’s what pushed him to it? All those years of being just that. Perfect Ricky. Perfect son. Perfect doctor. Perfect brother.”

“Now you’re psychoanalyzing Ricky?” Seven snapped his fingers, the lightbulb going on over his head. “That’s right, your father was a psychiatrist before he went into all that paranormal shit. You probably picked up the lingo from him, right? I wonder, what did he say about you screwing your mother’s killer and having his child?”

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out!”

When he left, slamming the door of the studio behind him, she collapsed to the floor.

She’d pushed him to that edge, where he would want nothing better than to leave her alone. That’s what she’d needed, to get him good and angry. To get him gone.

She didn’t know how long she sat on the floor of the studio, crying. Like Stella, she never cried. But now the sobs consumed her. All those years, she’d refused to talk to Estelle, angry about the choices her mother had made. Keeping Morgan from her, dedicating everything to discovering the Eye, obsessed with finding the artifact, even if it killed her…Gia knew her mother had a powerful gift. She didn’t for one minute believe her mother’s spirit guides hadn’t warned her.

She stared up at those dark, empty circles on her mother’s face where there should have been eyes. She stood slowly.

Maybe it would always be like this, she thought. Maybe Gia would forever remain blind to the truth.

“Who killed you, Mommy?” she asked the blinded image. “Who took you from me and Stella?”

But the moment had passed. That passion she’d felt painting her mother’s image, searching for answers, no longer guided Gia. Instead, she felt spent and completely empty inside.

She went back inside the house. She knew Morgan would be worried. She’d been so angry when she left, almost accusing him of botching the session because she couldn’t believe the result. She should call him, let him know she was all right.

But once inside the house, she thought she heard something. A door closing softly?

“Seven?”

She walked to the front room, expecting to see him back—almost hoping that he’d returned for another round.

The door remained closed. There was no one in the entry.

Something crashed behind her. She whirled around.

On the floor at her feet was a framed photograph. The picture had fallen off the entry table.

The frame was facedown on the wood floor.

She stooped to pick up the photograph and turn it over. It was a picture of Stella. The frame’s glass had shattered across her daughter’s smiling face.

Suddenly, her instincts kicked in. She dropped the photograph and ran, heading for the door out to the street.

Too late.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a hand grabbed her foot. She could feel herself being dragged back, away from the door. She almost lost her balance and fell to the floor.

Like a vise, an arm squeezed her stomach, keeping her upright. A hand clamped over her mouth.

“Alone at last,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “Looks like your boyfriend didn’t stick around to save the day.”

Gia pushed back with all her weight, slamming Thomas against the wall, shocking him into releasing her. But again he grabbed her ankle, and she tumbled to the floor. She kicked and flailed her arms and legs, trying somehow to escape.

“You told me you killed her. You admitted you killed Estelle.”

He held her down, looking at her strangely, as if he didn’t understand. “Fucking crazy bitch,” he said. “Of course I killed her.”

He punched her hard across the face.

Thomas Crane stared down at Gia’s unconscious figure. Right beside her was a photograph of their kid in a broken frame.

“A girl. Fucking figures,” he said, standing. He crushed the glass farther under his foot, and then picked Gia up from the floor.

Seven peeled out into the street, pedal to the metal.

What if that’s what pushed him to it? All those years of being just that. Perfect Ricky?

Like he hadn’t figured that out? Like he didn’t know that his brother had boxed himself into a place where he couldn’t ask for help? Well, that wasn’t good enough. Not nearly.

When he’d read that dossier on Gina Tyrell, Seven couldn’t help but recall how totally inept he was at finding the right people to trust. First his wife, then Ricky betrays him. Now Gia. Three strikes, you’re out, right?

He could feel that anger building inside him, burning him up. He almost thought of turning around, having another go at it with Gia.

She thought she could read his mind? How about him giving her a piece of it without all that hocus-pocus bullshit.

She’d lied. She’d used him!

Out of nowhere, a ball came bouncing onto the street. He almost didn’t see it—or the little girl running after it.

He yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, checking his rearview mirror with a prayer. He just missed hitting an oncoming Volvo as he swerved back to the right side of the street, around the little girl grabbing the ball.

He pulled over. The adrenaline had already been on high from his argument with Gia. Now he felt buzzed on it, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. Once the Volvo’s driver figured out no one was hurt, the guy took off, in a hurry to get somewhere. But Seven sat there, trying to get his breath back.

When he finally got out of the car, he found the little girl in the arms of her mother. The woman was holding her, crying over and over, “Thank God. Thank God.”

Seven kept his distance, letting the mother work it through—the possibility that, just then, she could have lost her baby. She was young and blond. The little girl, maybe around three years old.

Seven knew it was a trick of the mind—the little girl didn’t look anything like Gia’s daughter. But watching the lady rock her daughter in her arms, suddenly he remembered all those photographs of Stella decorating the walls in Gia’s house.

The woman looked up at him, tears flooding her brown eyes. “I only turned my back for a second, I swear.”

The realization came to him then, what it must be like never to be able to turn your back, even for a second. To always be wondering if Crane would find them…if he’d hurt them.

Gia would kill to save her daughter.

Seven was a cop. He knew what it meant to keep someone safe. Hell, he wouldn’t even hesitate if Nick’s life were on the line.

It’s what she’d been trying to tell him. Maybe he could never understand why Ricky had killed Scott—he didn’t have to. He just had to know that sometimes a person could be pushed to the limit of his conscience, goaded into doing the unthinkable.

“You okay?” he asked the woman. “You want me to call someone?”

She shook her head, still holding her daughter. “I’m okay. I’ll take her back inside. I’ll get my husband to baby-proof every single door.” She looked up at him, shaking her head. “I didn’t even know she could reach the knob.”