The Departed (2 page)

French Lick, Indiana, is a lovely old town…a lot of history runs through it and I wanted that for this story. But I took a little bit of liberty while writing it…putting in an extra resort, placing a jail where there isn’t one, a florist shop. In reality, I wouldn’t change a thing about the town, but for the book, I needed to change a few things.

I also made free with my fictional little special task force of the FBI—one headed by the hero, Taylor Jones. Taylor’s in charge of some special people—psychics—and they work pretty hard to stay out of the public eye. I know his task force isn’t portrayed very accurately, but, well, the FBI wouldn’t let me come in to play with them…

“FUCKING crazy,” one of the techs muttered, watching as Dez Lincoln stood in the middle of a desolate Iowa field with a smile on her face.

She was a beautiful woman—her black hair cut short, no more than an inch long, currently spiked up. Her skin was a light, smooth brown and her eyes were dark, so dark they almost appeared black, set under feathery, arched brows. Her body was all curves and long limbs, round hips, and a chest that was undeniably
female
. But there was no mistaking the strength—there was well-toned muscle to go along with those curves.

No doubt about it, she was gorgeous, and when she smiled, she could make the hearts of the men around her race.

But right now, her smile was fucking
freaky
.

Under her feet, they suspected, were dozens of bones. Unmarked graves.

The location of a serial killer’s little playground. Or maybe his burial ground.

But she smiled. It was a peaceful, beautiful smile—a Mona Lisa smile, and it didn’t belong in the place of death and decay, the tech thought.

Fucking
freaky
. He muttered it under his breath again and went to turn away, only to realize he was the subject of intense scrutiny.

Special Agent in Charge Taylor Jones was staring at him, and he did not look pleased. If Desiree Lincoln was fucking freaky, then Jones was fucking scary and that look never boded well.

Swallowing, he held that steely blue gaze and prepared himself for the fact that his head just might be rolling across the ground, figuratively speaking, in a second or two.

But all Jones did was stare at him—long enough to make sure the point was made.

Idiot.

Taylor Jones didn’t much like having any of his people being called crazy—they were unique, all of them. If they weren’t unique, they wouldn’t work for him. But unique didn’t make them crazy—and it didn’t make them freaks.

The tech flushed and after another fifteen seconds, Taylor looked away.

Still, he knew the man’s thoughts were echoed by a number of others. At least among the techs. Those on Taylor’s team understood, on some level, how Dez’s gift worked and they were no longer surprised by her reactions, even in a place as disturbing as this. Others, though…no, they didn’t like to see a woman smiling when she stood in the middle of what was likely an unmarked, mass grave.

Perhaps, if he didn’t know Desiree, he’d agree with them.

He knew her, though, and her gift had long since stopped unsettling him. Other things about Dez might unsettle him, but not her gift. He knew she wasn’t smiling because she stood atop the possible gravesites of murder victims.

She smiled because one of them, at least, would find peace tonight.

To Dez, that meant a lot.

Taylor wished he could find some solace in that, but all he felt was a fiery hot rage, carefully hidden under a cold, professional veneer. Somewhere, buried under all of it, was exhaustion.

He couldn’t let that cold professionalism crack and he couldn’t give in to the rage. Later, sometime much, much later, he could give in to the exhaustion, though.

They already had the killer in custody.
Correct that
, he thought to himself. The
alleged
killer.

Alleged, my ass
. Keaton Weiss was a brutal, sadistic bastard who had spent the past fifteen years preying on the Miss Lonely Hearts type, stalking them, seducing them…then kidnapping them, raping them, and killing them. Their bodies had never been recovered, until one victim had managed to get away and that was how they had finally managed to catch Weiss.

And catching Weiss was what had led them here.

No…it was what had led Dez here.

All Taylor had to do was place her in the room where Weiss had committed untold atrocities on untold women and, one by one, the ghosts had started to whisper to her. Most of them, though, had been too weak, too faded, or still too traumatized to connect with Dez.

She would work with them and hopefully, over time, she could help them move on.

But one of them had been able to establish a tenuous link with Dez and that link had proven strong enough for her to lead them here. Here, they’d find the evidence they needed to put the bastard away.

Jones didn’t have the gifts Dez had, but he knew his people, and judging by the looks on the faces of some of them, they had hit the crime jackpot here. Some of them were all but chomping at the bit to get out there and start their own hunt, but they knew they needed to give Dez her space.

If they screwed this up for her, the ghost may never find the peace she needed.

Some of the ungifted techs didn’t quite understand that. While Taylor was impatient in the extreme and itching to get out there, he knew if that ghost didn’t find any sort of peace, she’d linger with Dez.

And that would torment her.

He couldn’t do that.

Not to her.

He tried to force up some semblance of the cold, hard shield he’d perfected so long ago—he didn’t have any sort of special interest in Dez Lincoln. He wouldn’t wish the unrest of an agitated ghost on any of his people; that was all. He needed them all at their best, all the time.

But even as he told himself that little line, he knew it for what it was.

Nothing but shit.

He most certainly had a special interest in Dez Lincoln. And he had from the very beginning.

Not that it mattered, though.

She was a member of his unit and that made her off-limits.

And even if that wasn’t an issue, Taylor Jones didn’t do relationships.

Period.

“WILL you find him? Stop him?”

It was the third time Tawny Lawrence had asked Dez that question. The departed so easily forgot things, especially when they were agitated, and Tawny was most definitely agitated. Agitated, angry…and as they’d drawn closer to her unmarked grave, she’d gotten sadder as well, as though she’d felt the gloom and the darkness looming over her.

But Dez didn’t mention the repetitive questions—she simply answered as she had the first and the second time. “We have found him. He has been stopped. He won’t do this to anybody else.”

They were often confused—especially once they realized she could see them, hear them…talk to them. Some of them had spent years and years unable to speak to anybody, not even each other. A lot of the time, the souls of the departed were trapped in their own personal hells and until they could break free and move on, they weren’t aware of anything or anybody.

Unless somebody like Dez could penetrate that shield.

Tawny’s face, pretty and sweet, softened with a smile and, just like that, the darkness surrounding her began to lift. She didn’t look like a ghost, didn’t look like a murder victim.

In Dez’s experience, the departed were a reflection of how they remembered themselves in life…a washed-out mirror reflection. Tawny’s pale face faded even more and she closed her eyes.

“How long? Do you know?”

Dez said gently, “You disappeared seven years ago.”

“Seven years…my God.”
She sighed and her image flickered. Then she focused on Dez’s face. As her gaze focused, the air around Dez grew colder and the tension was thick enough to cut. “
My son. I have a son. Do you know what happened to him?”

“Your ex-husband took him. Raised him—he misses you but it looks like his father did his best to make sure he had a good life. He’s graduated from high school and he’s in college. Going for a degree in criminal justice.” A faint smile curled Dez’s lips and she said, “I think because of what happened to you.”

Something that might have been tears glimmered in Tawny’s eyes. “
He’s a good boy. I’m glad…thanks for telling me.”

Dez wasn’t surprised the woman had asked. She’d skimmed the file as they traveled up here, preparing for just this sort of thing. A lot of them had questions and nothing made it harder for them to pass over than
not knowing
.

Unwilling to be the one responsible for holding somebody back, Dez did her best to make sure she could answer whatever questions may come up. But she couldn’t always answer every one, and often, those unanswered questions were the hardest.

“What happens to me now?”
Tawny stared at her, her gaze sobering.

“That’s not so easy to answer, Tawny. What do you think happens?”

Tawny just smiled.

And as easy as that, she faded away.

Once Tawny was gone, Dez turned and faced the rest of the team.

Her gaze locked on Taylor’s.

He lifted a golden brow.

She nodded.

That was all he needed. Without a word from her, he turned away and the team sprang into action.

And just like that, Dez’s job was done and she was relegated to the sidelines.

Good thing for her she’d brought a book.

She knew Taylor wouldn’t be leaving here anytime soon.

“YOU’RE not supposed to be here,” Taylor snapped, his voice flat and cold.

Dez ignored him, staring at the house with a rapt expression.

The voices…they called to her. Their call was impossible to ignore. The whispers were like a siren’s song in her head. Responding to Taylor’s blunt statement was pointless, especially since she couldn’t explain why she was here. She just knew she
had
to be here.

She hadn’t been notified and that meant nobody thought her skills were required. If Taylor wanted her here, he would most definitely have called her.

After all, she lived just a little outside of Williamsburg. It wouldn’t take her any time to get to the small, upscale subdivision where all hell was currently breaking loose. It made her gut hurt to think about the hell happening inside this posh, designer neighborhood. Some people thought bad shit didn’t happen in places like this.

Dez knew better.

“There’s a child in there,” she said quietly.

“No, there’s not.” It was Colby Mathis, one of Jones’s bloodhounds. Under most circumstances, she would have listened to him, agreed with him. She liked the guy, respected him, and she knew he knew how to do his job. He was the hard-core psychic and she was the one who talked to ghosts.

But he was wrong this time.

Because there was a ghost standing at the door of the house, staring at Dez with desperate eyes, her mouth open in a silent scream.

“He’s got a child in there, Taylor, and if you all move on him like you’re planning, he’s going to kill her,” Dez said, her voice strained.

Colby swore. “We don’t have time for this, Jones. The fucker’s slipped away from us before—he’s
not
doing it again.”

Taylor looked from Colby to Dez, and Dez stared into Taylor’s eyes.

“Colby, give me one minute.”

Taylor saw the frustration simmer in the other man’s eyes, but the agent gave a terse nod and retreated, falling back a few steps as Taylor reached out and caught Dez’s arm. He tried to ignore the soft, silken warm skin of said arm, just as he’d tried to ignore the way his heart had skipped a beat when she had moved to stand beside him earlier.

He hadn’t even seen her, and he’d known it was her.

Felt it, somewhere deep inside.

Guiding her away from the crush of bodies, he said, “You can explain what you’re doing here later. But for now, tell me why you think there’s a kid in there when all my intel is saying otherwise.”

Dez flicked a look past his shoulder. “Something woke me up and I just knew I needed to be somewhere.
Here
. So I got up, got dressed, and headed out. Ended up here—I didn’t even know you had a team here, by the way.”

For a period of about five heartbeats, all thought stopped. Taylor could think of nothing else but those words—
got dressed
. Meaning…what? Had she been sleeping in pajamas? Something slinky and silky? Something sensible, practical? Or had she been naked, that sleek, warm brown body bare?

Blood drained out of his head and he clenched his jaw, jerked his attention away from her, and stared at the house until he could remember what he was doing, why he was here.

What he was about. He didn’t have time to be thinking about Desiree Lincoln and her sleeping attire—or lack thereof. He had a job to do.

A mission.
The
mission. It was all that mattered. All that could matter.

But his body didn’t want to listen to reason and he had to dredge up dark, ugly memories.

All of it necessary to ground himself, something he had to do around her, more and more.

He needed distance between them, a great deal of distance. But somehow, he didn’t think she’d like it if he suggested she quit. And as his unit was rather unique, if she didn’t, the only way he could get distance was if one of them requested a transfer.

Dez would never do it. She’d joined the FBI specifically to come work for him—she
needed
it.

Her dark brown eyes moved past him once again, lingering on the porch, and there was an expression in them that he had seen all too often. Haunted, angry, and determined. That haunted look appeared in her eyes for one reason and one reason only.

She had a ghost riding her.

Shit
. He might have intel on the outside, but it looked like Dez had intel on the
inside
, and if she did, he couldn’t risk a child…

“What do you see?” he asked, his voice flat and cold.

* * *

HER name was Richelle. In life, she had been a petite, pretty little angel, one who had probably driven her mom and dad insane, one they had probably loved dearly. Her death would have left a hole in their hearts and Dez wondered if they were the open sort…the kind of people she could sit down and talk to.

Could she tell them what she was? What she did? That she’d seen Richelle, spoken with her? Would it help them? Hurt them?

Could she tell them that Richelle had helped her save another child?

That’s assuming you
do
save her,
she thought grimly as she followed Richelle’s wavering form down the hallway. Taylor was at her back, shadowing her every move.

It was just the two of them, and it had taken every persuasive argument she had in her arsenal to get him to do this. If there was a child in the house, they needed to get her out. Dez had eyes—the ghost would help her, she knew it, clear down to her bones, and she’d been right.

Richelle was doing just that. A petite, avenging angel. She was hauntingly lovely, and death had made her ethereal.

And angry.

Right now, her killer was ensconced in the front of the house, staring entranced out the front window and mumbling to himself.

Richelle insisted he had a girl with him, but Colby had spent the past twenty minutes saying otherwise. Hell, he was probably
still
out there trying to convince the rest of the team Dez was wrong.

Colby sensed people.
Living
people.

If there was somebody else in there besides their killer and Colby didn’t feel her, then chances were, the child was dead, and by letting Dez go in
alone
, with nobody but a ghost for a guide, they would likely be giving the bastard a potential hostage.

Taylor, naturally, had agreed. So she wouldn’t go alone. She could live with that—after all, she wasn’t stupid.

Nor was she helpless. She held her gun in a loose, ready grip.

Hostage, my ass
.

She might not be the typical agent and she might not be the badass some of them were, but she’d made it through the same training they had, and she still kept herself in pretty decent shape. The day she couldn’t handle herself against a child-molesting, motherfucking pervert was the day she’d put down her gun and take up knitting—just let the ghosts drive her crazy, because she wouldn’t be much use to anybody anyway.

“She’s in the closet.”
Richelle’s ghostly voice, audible only to her, drifted back to her. “
Gave her something to make her sleep.”

Dez hoped it was just drugs, but logically, she knew Colby was likely to sense a child, even one knocked out by drugs.

Not many things would keep him from sensing the presence of a human.

Dez wanted to ask Richelle if she knew what the guy had used but she knew it was a waste of time. Richelle was only ten—wicked smart and surprisingly clear minded, especially for one of the departed. But still, the child was only ten.

And now, she’d never get to see eleven, or twelve…never go to the prom, never get her first kiss.

Richelle stopped by the closet and Dez halted a few feet away. She looked by Richelle to the front room and then glanced over her shoulder to Taylor. He eased around her, the bulky bulletproof vest he wore breaking the smooth, perfect line of his suit.

He stopped just a breath away from Richelle and his eyes, flat and hard, stared down the hallway, watching, waiting.

With him watching her back, Dez laid a hand on the doorknob.

Slowly, oh, so slowly, she turned it.

* * *

OUT front, the rest of the team waited.

With Taylor in the house with Dez, Special Agent Joss Crawford was in charge and, unlike Jones, he didn’t believe in keeping a polished veneer that never showed any sign of emotion.

So when the message came up on his phone, he didn’t bother suppressing the urge to swear. No, it ripped out of him in a long, ugly torrent and then he looked over and pinned Colby with a stare. “You were wrong, Mathis. Lincoln found a child and she’s alive.”

* * *

TAYLOR suspected some manner of psychic ability was more common than people thought.

He didn’t have any classifiable skill—wasn’t telekinetic the way some of his people were and he couldn’t talk to the departed, as Dez liked to call them. Nor could he home in on the trail of a kidnapped child the way one of his sometimes contract employees, Taige Morgan, did.

He recognized the gifted, though. It was how he’d lured so many of them to his unit. He recognized them—that was his gift, so to speak, that and knowing how to bring them inside, get them to work for him.

While he wasn’t getting any of those vibes from this house, he wasn’t the least bit surprised when the bastard they’d been sitting on came roaring around the corner, like he’d been somehow alerted to their presence.

Instinct. It wasn’t that far removed from some level of psychic skill, and this pervert’s sick needs were about to land him in the worst sort of hell.

His name was Edward Mitchell; he liked to pick up pretty little girls just shy of puberty, rape them, and dump their bodies in the James River; and he wasn’t going to go down easy.

They’d almost made it to the back door and Taylor even had a believable story concocted to explain why they were in the house to begin with—they did have a warrant, but they hadn’t bothered to explain that when he’d picked the lock on the back door. They’d had reason to believe there was a child in danger in this house and Dez was carrying that child in her arms now.

But as Taylor went to open the door for her, Edward came rushing down the hall, huffing and puffing, his pale, pasty skin gleaming with sweat and his eyes half wild.

“No!” he screeched.

And he raised a gun.

Taylor raised his own and fired, but the bastard managed to get a shot off. And as the sick fuck fell, lifeless, to the floor, Taylor turned. And the first thing he saw as he turned was the brilliant, dark wash of red staining the side of Dez’s neck.

* * *

THE night passed in a haze of bloody memories, the wail of sirens and the bright, blinding lights of the emergency room.

They tried to keep him out in the waiting room.

But either the blood they saw in
his
eyes, the badge, or the gun he didn’t bother to keep concealed convinced the medical staff that trying to keep him out was going to waste precious time.

Judging by the amount of blood Dez had lost, he didn’t know how much time she had.

The child was already at the local children’s hospital, alive…and that was all he knew. For the first time, he’d turned over the reins to another, allowing Crawford to take command while he stayed with Dez. God—Dez.

She couldn’t die.

Not like this. Fuck, she couldn’t die. Not Dez.

Although he knew her, too well.

She’d be okay with going down knowing she’d helped save a child, and that was what she’d done. The girl was alive…because Dez had shown up when she had. Alive because of Dez and the ghost of another victim.

Another victim…somebody else Taylor hadn’t been able to save. Another scar on his soul. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known. It never mattered. All that mattered was that he hadn’t gotten there in time, hadn’t pieced it together in time…and another child, another little girl had been lost.

Dez…would she become another scar on his soul?

Her face flashed in front of him, her warm brown skin a sickly, ashen gray, her eyes wide with shock. The blood had soaked her clothing. Mitchell, damn the bastard. Either he was a damn good shot or Dez just had lousy luck. Her vest would have protected her torso, but the bastard’s bullet had hit her neck.

Stop it—
he had to hold it together for now. At least long enough to make sure they took care of her. She was still alive. That meant she had a chance. But if he hadn’t been right there…

“Don’t think about that,” he muttered, reaching up and pressing his fingers to his eyes. “Don’t.”

And he found he actually
could
push the image out of his mind, but only because it just wasn’t acceptable. The thought of Desiree Lincoln’s lifeless body was just more than he could handle. A hell of a lot more.

“Mr. Lincoln?”

Tired, so tired it never occurred to Taylor the nursing staff might be looking for him. It wasn’t until the voice came again, and from a lot closer, that he opened his eyes and met the tired gaze of a man dressed in pale green scrubs. “Mr. Lincoln?”

“No. Special Agent Jones. But if you’re here about Desiree Lincoln, then yes, I’m here with her.”

“Ahhh…I see. My apologies.” The nurse smiled. “It’s been one of those nights. There’s a small lounge just down the hall. I’m going to take you there, if that’s okay. Dr. Frantz will be in to speak with you shortly.” He paused and then asked, “Does Ms. Lincoln have any family we should notify? There wasn’t much information in her personal effects.”

Taylor shook his head. Dez’s mother was still alive, living in the lap of luxury in West Palm Beach. He knew that because he’d researched everything about Dez when he’d discovered her. He knew all about how the girl had been abandoned—her mother had taken her to school one day and just never came back for her. Dez knew about her. But the woman was a stranger to her and it was in her file who to contact in the event of an emergency…or worse. Her mother wasn’t on the list.

Taylor couldn’t blame her. Why should she want to talk to the woman who’d walked out on her? Dez had gone through a series of foster homes after her mother disappeared. Nobody wanted the strange, pretty child who had talked to thin air.

Almost afraid to ask, he said, “She has some very close personal friends. Should…” He realized there was something hot and bright burning his eyes: tears. It was tears. Blinking them away, he cleared his throat and asked quietly, “Should I call them? One lives in Alabama. It would take her a while to get here…should she come?”

The nurse gave him one of those strained smiles. “You really should speak to the doctor.”

“Just tell me if her friends should be here,” Taylor said, putting a hard edge into his voice. “She risked her life to save a child tonight and if she’s not going to make it, she’s got a right to have friends at her side. Don’t give me that official shit—just give me a simple yes or no.”

The doctor appeared just then and though her smile was every bit as tired as the nurse’s, her face wasn’t quite so strained. “She came through the surgery and if you want to call her friends to donate blood, I’m all for that. She’s going to need it. But she’s a strong woman.”

As his brain processed that information, he almost hit the floor. As it was, it took all he had just to stay standing.

Relief, Taylor realized, could be very, very painful.