A Deadly Web (19 page)

“Do you think going public would give you that? There is a cost, Tasha. Plenty of people would be afraid of you, but there would also be the ones who believe you can help them. The ones with lost children, lost loves, the ones looking for lottery numbers and the cures for diseases and a glimpse into the future to give them answers—or an edge.”

“So I become a recluse or a sideshow freak. Great. That’s just great.” She slid off the stool and carried her coffee a few steps toward the living room.

That was when she saw a political ad on TV. She couldn’t hear the sound, but it hardly mattered. A candidate for the office of lieutenant governor in South Carolina. A
handsome, smiling face. A spotless record in lesser offices in his climb toward the office he now aspired to. A rare bachelor candidate, but young enough to make that a plus.

Eliot Wolfe.

Tasha’s coffee cup fell from nerveless fingers and shattered on the marble floor.

Bishop rejoined his wife in the spacious foyer of what had once been and perhaps would be again a splendid old home; right now it was partially restored, filled with the clutter of work suddenly stopped. Paint-spattered dustcloths were draped over pieces of antique furniture, sawhorses and ladders waited to be used again, and leaning against walls beside their too-modern replacements were original windows and doors in various stages of returning to their former glory.

“Nothing out of the ordinary I could find,” Miranda reported, frowning slightly. “It’s an old house in the middle of being restored. Did Henry’s client say she was going to finish the work?”

“If she can find someone as good as Henry. Or if Henry comes back. She said that with real hope.”

“Because of the house or Henry? You said he was a bit of a loner, right?”

“Yeah, not at all a ladies’ man. But from what I could tell, women were drawn to him. Maybe the sad eyes.”

Miranda lifted an eyebrow at him.

“When I was checking into his background, a woman who had gone to school with him made that comment. It stuck in my mind.”

“Was he a strong medium?”

“About a five on our scale. He probably would have ranked higher if he had wanted to consciously use his abilities. But he never did. Said the spirits came to him, silent and smiling, and led him to wherever various owners had stashed or packed away original fittings and fixtures. He really didn’t want to know how to control it or how to make it work for him. Just wanted to keep doing the work he loved and be left alone.”

She shook her head. “That’s the hellish part of all this, isn’t it? These psychics, at least the ones you kept track of, just wanted to live the most normal lives they could. They struggled to either suppress their abilities or work them into daily living with as little drama as possible. And then one day, somebody just . . . takes them away. And does God only knows what with them.”

“I’m guessing that at the very least, they’re being forced to explore their abilities whether they want to or not.”

“Psychic abilities don’t exactly come to heel when called. We know this.”

“Better than most, yeah. But I’m also guessing various forms of persuasion are being used.”

“Torture?”

It was Bishop’s turn to frown. “Murphy was very certain and very clear in what she said about the abducted psychics never being the same again. Since she also said no abducted psychics they know of ever returned to their former lives, I’m guessing she knows what she does because she or members of their group have encountered abducted psychics in the field—working for the other side.”

“Persuaded, bribed, tortured, converted. Pick your poison.”

He nodded. “Sounds like. Forever altered. But what’s
behind
it all? If they were only taking precogs, I’d guess they were in it for profit, looking for someone who could reliably predict the winning team or the next card in the deck or whatever foreknowledge would net the most money. But they’re taking people with every psychic ability we know of, pretty much. Where’s the rhyme or reason in that?”

“It’s coming clearer to me how so many people could have looked for answers for years, even decades, without finding them,” Miranda confessed.

“Yeah, a tougher goal than one might imagine. If not for profit, they must have some use for the different abilities. And . . . psychic abilities are
so
different, one from the other, as well as having aspects unique to that individual.

“So no pattern to hold to there. Not, at least, one I can see yet.”

“Well, since Henry’s ability is as a medium, and neither of us shares that, I somehow doubt we’re going to find
any useful information here. Just like at Katie’s place. You want to go for door number three and try Grace Seymore’s house?”

“You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic,” he noted.

“I just don’t think we’re going to find anything useful looking at another empty house.”

Before Bishop could respond to that, a buzzing sound came from the leather satchel-type briefcase he had left on a dustcloth-draped low table in the foyer. He went to it and pulled out his cell phone. “Might even last till noon,” he murmured, noting before taking the call the only-slightly-diminished battery he had unplugged from its charger barely two hours previously.

“Bishop.” He listened, his eyes on his wife, frowning a little for a moment before his brows lifted in surprise. “I see. Thank you, Detective, for the call. I won’t forget it.”

“What is it?” Miranda asked as soon as he ended the call.

“Something remarkable, if we’re to believe all we’ve been told,” Bishop said to her. “That was the detective who looked into the disappearance of Grace Seymore. It appears she’s come home.”

—

It took only two steps for Brodie to reach Tasha, but when he followed her fixed stare, all he saw on TV was a chirpy blonde offering financial market information.

“Tasha?”

“You aren’t going to like this,” she said slowly. “But I need you to trust me.”

“I trust you,” he said, already not liking the sense of foreboding that made him want to stop her from saying whatever it was.

“Good. I need to see Murphy. Alone.”

“Why?”

“I said you’d have to trust me. I need to talk to her about something.”

“Something I can’t hear?”

She hesitated. “Something you can’t hear . . . yet. John, please. It’s very important.”

He hesitated, staring at her. She was pale but composed. Even more, the odd link they had shared since her trip to the “maze” somewhere in his mind had apparently been shut down on her end.

Very, very tightly.

He had absolutely no idea what she was thinking or feeling.

“Tasha—”

“Please. As soon as possible, John.”

“Tasha, you’re being watched. Very closely.”

“She can meet us at the coffee shop. And you can . . . sit a few tables away. Still watching out for me. Still being a Guardian.”

“Murphy doesn’t have a connection to you yet, not a visible one obvious to the other side. We don’t like to expose all our soldiers. It’s bad strategy. And her part in all this usually keeps her on the periphery of things and in the dark.”

“John.” Tasha’s voice was very steady, and she still refused to look at him. “I realize there are risks. But I have
a feeling Murphy will agree with me that I have a good reason for her to come out of the shadows.” She almost but not quite laughed. “That phrase is never going to mean the same thing, is it? At least to some of us. Out of the shadows.”

To say that Brodie was curious by then was to grossly understate the matter. He brushed aside phrases corrupted by this war. “You don’t believe I can keep secrets?” he demanded. “Now, after all this?”

“It’s not your secret to keep.” She looked at him finally, her eyes dark and still. “It’s mine. For now, at least. John, I need to talk to Murphy. I need to talk to her as soon as possible.” She was reasonably sure Brodie had never known the name of the man who had killed his wife, but what she wasn’t sure of was whether he had caught a glimpse, or had later—in what must have been an obsessive search—uncovered information that might now identify Eliot Wolfe to him.

Eliot Wolfe, who was a born psychic. Eliot Wolfe, whose campaign schedule, shown on TV, included a fund-raiser here in Charleston less than two weeks away.

Eliot Wolfe, who had once been part of the eugenics program of the other side—and probably, certainly, still was. Just waiting for his genetic match to be identified, his mate seduced or compelled to join with him.

As Elizabeth Brodie had refused to do.

Once Brodie knew that . . . Tasha wouldn’t have bet a dime on Wolfe’s survival. What she wasn’t at all sure of was what was best to do, both for Brodie’s sake and for
their side of this war. Because identifying a player on the other side, especially one who seemed destined to take his place in a high position of state government—quite possibly as a stepping-stone to a national position—could be useful . . . later on.

Unless Brodie killed Wolfe.

“I don’t like it, Tasha.”

“I didn’t expect you to. Get in touch with Murphy, John. Please. I need to see her as soon as possible.”

It was patently clear Brodie wasn’t happy about it, but he did call Murphy, and twenty minutes later Tasha was sitting across from her at Tasha’s regular table at the coffee shop—with Brodie about four tables away and not happy about that, either. Especially since Murphy had her back to him, and she prevented him from being able to see Tasha.

Tasha waited until the waitress she had thought of as innocuous brought them coffee and muffins, taking the time to get a good look at Murphy, since they had met only once and in the dark.

She was a tall woman with short and rather spiky blond hair—a curious and youthful, almost punk style that suited her narrow face and sharp green eyes. She also dressed in a youthful, slightly rebellious sort of style, from the thermal shirt underneath her worn black leather jacket to the khaki pants sporting several belts, and lace-up combat boots that didn’t seem at all incongruous on her fairly small feet.

She carried a worn leather bag more satchel than purse, slung across from shoulder to opposite hip, and Tasha had
the feeling that if she’d had to leave everything behind her at a moment’s notice, Murphy would have everything she needed in that bag.

When the waitress delivered their order and then left with a smile, Murphy said calmly, “She’s one of them, I take it.”

“I was trying not to let anything show,” Tasha managed.

“Yeah, that’s when most people do.” Murphy smiled briefly, her vivid green eyes watchful. “Don’t worry, I doubt she saw it. I did. Brodie did, even four tables away. Why is he, by the way?”

“You’re psychic, right?” Tasha kept her voice low, casual. She sipped her latte.

“Yeah. Sort of a telepath.”

“
Sort of
a telepath?”

“I pick up things sometimes, once I’m tapped in. But what I’m really good at is serving as a conduit so one telepath who’s . . . out of range . . . can communicate with another.”

Tasha stared at her. “That voice in my head.”

“Another one of our people. She needed to try to communicate with you. To . . . make you aware of what was going on so that when Brodie approached you, it wouldn’t be a total shock.”

“I haven’t met her yet.”

It wasn’t a question, but Murphy answered anyway. “No, she’s outside the perimeter Duran has set up around you. Safer that way.”

“Does Duran know about her?”

“About her, yes; she was a target not so long ago. But
I doubt he knows she’s nearby. She has a hell of a shield and, unlike most of us, can use her abilities even with it up. Duran has psychics of his own to sense us, but as far as we know he’s had only one here.”

“Astrid. I sort of met her.”

“In the maze, yeah. You gave her a pretty bad headache with that. Our other psychic made it considerably worse so she’ll be no good to Duran for another day or two.”

“Sarah Mackenzie.”

Murphy’s brows rose.

“I . . . picked that up from Brodie.”

“So it’s true, you two are connected.”

“I’m not sure exactly how that works.” Tasha realized she was picking at her muffin and frowned down at the crumbs. “I think it happened in the maze, but I don’t know why. It seems . . . intermittent, that contact. Sometimes I know what he’s thinking without really knowing the words. Sometimes I pick up emotions. Other times, I—I have the feeling I could see as deeply into him as I wanted to. If I wanted to.”

“You don’t?”

“It’s an intrusion. An unwelcome one. He hasn’t said, but I know it makes him uneasy to know we’re connected at all. He doesn’t want to be connected. To anyone.”

“Yeah, that’s Brodie.” Murphy straightened her shoulders and said, briskly but still quietly, “I think you wanted to see me for something besides small talk.”

Tasha hesitated, then said, “How much do you know about Brodie’s wife?” This time, her voice was low.

Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “The bare facts, like most
everyone else. She was a psychic. He loved her. They were married. She was murdered. Not one of the fake murders we all know about; she literally died in his arms. About ten years ago. And Brodie never found her killer. That’s why he’s in this war of ours. At least until you came along and you two connected however it is you connected, the stake Brodie had in this war was emotional. The need to protect psychics. The drive for answers. For justice.”

“For revenge?”

“Maybe. Maybe he’s entitled.”

Tasha looked up, straight into the steady gaze of her companion. “The question is, if someone could tell him why she was murdered, and by who, should they? Even if the man who murdered Elizabeth Brodie, who is also psychic and quite definitely on the other side, may one day be governor of this state?”

—

Katie Swan said, “I can’t.” She said it, by now, like a litany. Like a plea.
Please stop. Please let me go home. I won’t tell anyone. I promise, I’ll never tell anyone.