True Vision (24 page)

Noah knew he was driving too fast on the shoulder of the road, flying by the backed-up beach traffic, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting Charlie to this so-called expert she seemed to think could help her. At the same time, he berated himself for letting her talk him into this when his instincts had screamed at him to get her ass back into the ER. As it was, she sat in the passenger seat of the Mustang, quiet except for telling him when to turn. Every few minutes, her entire body would clench, as though gripped by a terrible pain, and her breathing would go shallow and ragged. When he looked away from the road, for too long to be safe, her eyes would be blind, the way they’d been right after he’d grasped her hand in his hotel room and she’d gone briefly catatonic. Each time, the tension passed within seconds, and she’d go limp.

He assumed she was having some kind of empathic reaction to the trauma of Alex’s shooting. He didn’t know much about empathy, but he knew from what Laurette had told him that empaths could be bombarded by the emotions and moods of other people and that it could be devastating.

“It’s on the left,” Charlie said, her voice so weak she could only whisper.

He peered through the windshield, horrified. The pink shack. The fucking psychic? Oh, God, they’d wasted so much time.

“There’s a house behind it.”

“Charlie, come on. You need a doctor.”

“Just humor me. Please.”

He ground his teeth together—he had to trust she knew what she was doing—and parked in front of the shack. He got out, ran around the front of the car to Charlie’s side and opened her door. She was rigid again, staring at nothing, her forehead shiny with perspiration. Tears streaked her pale face in a steady stream. Then she sagged in the seat and blinked several times, her eyes looking like they tried to roll back in their sockets.

Something snapped in Noah’s head. He couldn’t take it anymore. He just couldn’t, scared to death that these bizarre episodes were killing her. “Forget this. We’re going to the hospital.”

Hearing the crunch of gravel, he turned to see a petite older woman with short reddish blond hair hurrying toward them. “Charlie?” she called. “Are you with Charlie?”

Noah didn’t respond, shocked that she knew.

She pushed him aside with surprising strength and knelt in the car door. She grasped Charlie’s wrist, checking her pulse, then patted her gently on the cheek with the palm of her hand. “Can you hear me, dear? Open your eyes and talk to me.”

Charlie forced her eyes open, wet her lips. Noah bent down so that his head was close to the older woman’s, Charlie’s voice so faint that he caught only some of her words. “Flashes . . . over and over . . . can’t make them stop . . . head . . . hurts.”

The woman rose and turned to Noah, her features tight with worry. “Bring her inside.”

He hesitated. “I’d rather take her to the ER.”

Her piercing blue gaze swept up to bore into his. “You want what’s best for her,” she stated firmly. “Bring her inside. Now, please.”

Without another word, he bundled Charlie into his arms and kicked the car door closed. She was dead weight, her head limp against his shoulder, as he followed the woman over a stone path through a garden buzzing with insects. He could hear the wash of Gulf waves in the distance, smell salt in the air.

Inside the house, the woman gestured and said, “On the sofa in there,” as she thrust a teapot under the kitchen faucet and ran water.

He walked through the pristine kitchen into a clutter-free living room that contained a yellow floral-print overstuffed sofa, two matching chairs and a glass coffee table whose base looked like it had been carved from driftwood. The light was low and soothing, and Noah lowered himself to the sofa cushions and cradled Charlie on his lap. She had begun to shiver, so he gathered her close, stroking her hair, her arms, his heart pounding with fear. She no longer seemed to be with him, as though trapped in some recess of her own mind, her body clenching every few minutes, becoming infused with that terrible tension, then sagging against him as tears spilled from her eyes. He hoped to God this psychic woman could make it stop, that he hadn’t made a fatal mistake by bringing her here.

The psychic walked into the living room then with a tray that she set on the coffee table before perching on the edge of the sofa in front of where Charlie’s legs stretched out.

“I’m going to give her a tranquilizer,” she said, plucking an orange plastic pill bottle off the tray and shaking three small white discs into her palm. After dropping the pills into a cup filled with reddish liquid, she stirred with a spoon to help them dissolve.

“What is it?” Noah asked, tightening his arms around Charlie. No way was he letting this woman pour something weird down her throat.

“Ativan.”

“And that?” He jutted his chin toward the cup.

“Herbal tea. Apple cinnamon. Can’t you smell it?”

He did then, and relaxed some. Herbal tea and Ativan. Nothing exotic or smacking of hocus-pocus. He could live with that.

“It’s going to put her out,” the woman said. “She needs to sleep so healing can begin.”

Fear spiked right into his brain. “Healing?”

“I’ll explain later.” She picked up the cup and tapped Charlie’s cheek until she roused some. “Charlie, dear, you need to drink this. It’s tea and a sedative. I made sure it’s not too hot.”

Noah took the cup, his hand shaking, and held it to her lips. He tipped it back slowly until she drank it all.

“That’s good,” the woman said, stroking her fingers over Charlie’s forehead and down the side of her face. “You’re going to feel better soon. I promise.”

It took twenty minutes before Charlie’s muscles ceased their ritual of contracting and releasing, before the tears stopped coursing down her face. She relaxed in his arms, her eyes fluttering. Her lips moved, as though she tried to speak but didn’t have the strength. Noah’s heart clutched, and he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her softly to reassure her.

“It’s okay to let go,” he said. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Another ten minutes passed before he felt the moment she dropped out of consciousness into a deep sleep. The psychic did, too, because she rose, her hands clasped restlessly before her as she breathed an unsteady sigh. “Well, then, I think we’re going to be okay.”

Noah looked up at her and had to fight down the urge to bellow, or cry. Now that Charlie had stopped trembling, he had started. “What the hell was that?”

She gestured down the hall. “Let’s get our girl tucked into bed, and then we can talk.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

C
an I get you something to drink?” the psychic asked as she walked out onto the wraparound porch.

Noah glanced at her from where he’d collapsed onto a rocking chair facing an expanse of light sand that ended at the jagged line of dark water. “Scotch?”

She paused before him, looking him over, then extended her delicate, manicured hand. “AnnaCoreen Tesch.”

He clasped her hand, a bit unnerved by the shrewdness of her gaze. What was she seeing? “Noah Lassiter.”

“From Chicago,” she said.

He arched a brow, then realized that Charlie must have mentioned him to her. That made him stupidly happy for a moment.

AnnaCoreen’s lips curved. “I know accents. Sorry to disappoint you.”

He didn’t react, deciding he’d let her think his disappointment was because he’d thought she had psychically known where he was from.

Her smile grew before she turned to go. “I’ll be back shortly.”

He settled back in the rocking chair and stared out at the water illuminated by a full moon. Lights in the distance suggested a small cruise ship or other vessel slowly chugging across the horizon. A faint clang sounded in the distance every fifteen seconds or so, almost drowned out by the energy of the waves racing ashore then retreating.

He should have started to relax, but he couldn’t. He’d sat on the side of Charlie’s bed for a long time, watching her for signs of restlessness. When she didn’t move other than to breathe deeply, her lips slightly parted, he’d lightly kissed her then left, closing the door behind him.

AnnaCoreen returned with another tray, this one stocked with small plates, Italian bread, chunks of cheese, olives, sliced fruit and two glasses of amber liquid. She set the tray on a small table between his chair and another one and picked up one of the glasses.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting it. When he took a gulp, he tasted iced tea loaded with sugar.

AnnaCoreen settled onto the other chair and began to pile food on one of the plates. Apparently, she was hungry, he thought, just before she handed him the plate.

He dug in, suddenly starving. “So you said you’d explain,” he said around the bread and cheese in his mouth.

She sat back and began to gently rock. “I assume you already know that Charlie is empathic.”

“Yes, but I don’t know the details. I mean, I know . . . knew a woman who was empathic, but it was different.”

“Charlie’s gift is unfamiliar to me as well, and perhaps to most others. I’ve done some research, consulted some friends, and no one I’ve talked with has heard of this particular type of empathy. That doesn’t mean it’s never happened before, just that the people I’ve consulted have never heard of it, which makes it very unusual.”

“I think I need an overview,” he said. “I’m aware of her empathy, but . . . well, we haven’t discussed it.”

AnnaCoreen stopped rocking and studied him. “You’re new in her life.”

He couldn’t help the swell of defensiveness. “Is that a crime?”

“Of course not. You care deeply for her.”

He nodded, his heart rate kicking into a higher gear. “Deeply” might be an understatement considering how much he’d wanted to destroy something when she’d been in pain. “Yeah, I do.”

“It happened fast.”

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes at how each “question” was a statement. Maybe she
was
a damn psychic, but he was too tired and emotionally wrung out to play this game. “If you already know all this, why are you asking me?”

“Why does it frustrate you?”

“I’m not frustrated.”

“You are. And angry. Why?”

“What, are you a therapist on top of being psychic?”

“I care about her, too.”

She said it so simply that he almost didn’t catch the subtle change in her tone. Was she warning him? He felt the first clutch of fear that she really could see through him, straight to his soul. “I’m not going to hurt her.” He said it as much to assure her as himself. He
wasn’t
, damn it. He’d die first.

AnnaCoreen held his gaze for several beats, her expression unreadable. “There’s darkness inside you that concerns me, Noah Lassiter,” she said softly. And then she turned her face toward the water and began to rock again.

Realizing he was holding his breath, Noah drew in a long stream of air. She was messing with him. No way could she know anything about where he’d been or what he’d done. It just wasn’t possible. And, regardless, his prime concern right now was Charlie.

“So are you going to give me the lowdown on Charlie’s empathy so I’m prepared the next time she needs help or are you going to keep me in the dark?”

She glanced at him and smiled. He thought he saw a flicker of approval in her blue eyes, or maybe that was wishful thinking.

She rocked some more, as though thinking carefully before she started speaking. “Charlie described it as feeling as though she’s inside the other person’s head during a recent traumatic event. She feels what they felt, hears what they heard, sees what they saw.”

“Holy Christ,” he breathed, setting aside his plate of food.

“It’s triggered by contact,” she said. “A skin-to-skin transfer of energy that carries the other person’s memory.”

He thought of that frightening moment in his hotel room when he’d touched her, how afterward she’d looked up at him as though she’d understood everything about him. Later, she’d said his shooting “didn’t feel minor.” He’d assumed she’d somehow absorbed his experience, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d actually
lived
it. Fuck, he thought.
Fuck.

“Yes, it’s a little much to take in,” AnnaCoreen murmured.

He glanced at her. Had he spoken aloud?

She said, “I saw coverage of this morning’s shooting on television. The last broadcast said Charlie’s sister was in stable condition.”

“Yes,” he said, struggling to stay focused. “The doctor thinks she’ll be fine.”

“That’s good news.” She paused. “Charlie was there when she was shot?”

Noah’s stomach turned. It so easily could have been Charlie. And then he remembered skidding to a stop in the doorway of her hotel room. She’d had her blood-covered hands on Alex’s chest. It struck him now how she had been able to describe the shooter. She’d
seen
the shooter from Alex’s point of view, had probably felt the bullet rip through her chest.

He sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and lowering his head. He felt sick, stunned. A grinding queasiness slithered through his stomach. Oh, God, Charlie.

AnnaCoreen cleared her throat. “Judging from the shape she was in when you arrived, I’m assuming she’d had repeated contact with multiple emotional people in the aftermath.”

“Yes. Her parents. Detective Logan. Some other guy named Mac.”

“I assume that Charlie was jolted by the shooting,” she said, “then everything she felt after that added up. As you might imagine, taking on other people’s pain and emotion, especially when it’s that intense, tends to wear a person out.”

He raised his head, glanced at her. She looked pale yet serene in the dim light. “Like her circuits became fried?”

She smiled slightly. “Yes. If she were a computer, we would describe it as a system crash. Sleep should repair the damage.”