One Week To Live (7 page)

He knew why, Angie. She’d asked him not to write about her ever again, but how could he avoid mentioning her? As a psychic she was an integral part of the story. He admired what she could do and wanted to tell the world about it. How could he know she shied away from publicity? After the San Diego article, she’d told him he’d betrayed her, but he didn’t look at it that way.

He again reached for his computer mouse. With so many abductions out there, it was important to keep this story alive. He couldn’t let people forget there was a missing child in danger. He had to make Angie see that she added the human interest element to the story that made people read it. Clicking the button, he sent the story off and powered down his laptop satisfied with the work accomplished. He glanced out the condo window. The menacing clouds moved across the valley obscuring the sun. Large raindrops splashed on the balcony floor and thunder rattled the windows.

He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could catch Angie before she left work. Over drinks and dinner he’d tell her about his latest article.

****

He paced back and forth in front of the bank of elevators leading to her office. The upper-floor elevators ended at the lobby level. She’d need to disembark here to catch the elevator to the parking garage. When he spotted her, he smiled. Just seeing her lifted his spirits and made his heart beat a little faster. Even before that shared kiss he’d been interested in her.

“I told you I don’t want to talk,” she announced when she saw him. She moved toward an open elevator door leading to the garage.

“Wait,” he called out. This wasn’t how he wanted her to react upon seeing him.

Other workers swarmed around her and entered the elevator car. With a loud ding, the door slid closed before she could get in. She headed for another elevator.

“Angie, please wait.”

She stopped, turned, and let out a huge sigh. “What do you want?”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, going over and pressing the elevator button before she could.

“I can manage on my own. Don’t bird dog me,” she protested.

“My car’s parked in your garage.” He felt it wasn’t safe for her to wander through the garage alone with the kidnapper possibly lurking nearby.

“Suit yourself.” She entered the elevator car and pressed the floor number.

The sound of their footsteps echoed through the hot garage. Several car engines roared to life a few rows over. When she unlocked and opened her car door, a sweet, sickening scent wafted out. “Yuck,” she mumbled. “What’s that smell?”

He pushed her aside and peered in. “What the hell?”

Looking over his shoulder, she muttered, “Oh, my God!” Dozens of dead roses lay scattered across the front seat of her car and spilled onto the floor in a limp brown collection of flowers that produced a nauseous stench in the summer heat.

He scanned the garage, but saw no one nearby. In the distance, an elevator door slid open and someone in a wheelchair disappeared inside.

“There’s a note,” she said, her voice a shaky whisper.

Dragging his handkerchief out of his pants pocket, he reached in and took it from the seat. It read, “Isn’t the smell of death wonderful?”

Chapter Six

Monday night/Tuesday morning

“How did he get into my car?” she stammered, fear filling her words. “I never leave it unlocked.”

He hated the hysteria creeping into her voice. Hated that someone resorted to such sick methods of intimidation. He surveyed the car. “There’s no sign of forced entry.”

She stared at the flowers, her face filled with dismay. “He’s never done anything like this before. A flurry of threatening notes, but never something like this.”

“His M.O. is changing. We don’t know what he might do.”

“He’s becoming more brazen. Why?”

“He’s trying to frighten you.” Brian fought the urge to reach out and comfort her.

“Well, it’s working.” She sucked in a breath.

“If you’re scared, your visions could be suppressed. You won’t be able to figure out his clues.”

“What clues? I’ve been bombarded with harassing notes but few clues.” Panic crept into her voice. “Monday’s nearly over. Friday is the seventh day and we have nothing.”

“Have you experienced more visions?”

“Just one, an explosion.”

“What?”

She told him how the erupting volcano on Saturday night had triggered the vision of an explosion. “I don’t know what it means. I pray it isn’t connected with the little girl.”

“You can’t let him upset you. That’s what he wants.”

“But he already has, dammit.”

A nearby car door slammed. She jumped. He scanned the garage and stepped closer to shield her, protect her.

“He’s been near me more than once, but I haven’t sensed his evil presence. Last time I did.”

“Don’t be discouraged. Give your psychic abilities a chance.”

“What psychic abilities?”

“You’re afraid of failing, aren’t you?” Memories of his own previous failure haunted him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Watching her worry increase as she studied the dead flowers, he wanted to give her encouragement, hope. He gently took her elbow and guided her away from the open car door. “I believe in you. You can play his game with your own deck of cards. Use your psychic talent to stack the deck in your favor.”

“How? I’m not connecting with him, seeing glimpses into his mind, visualizing the world through his eyes. In the Tucker case, those glimpses were unsettling but useful. This time I don’t even know when he’s standing right next to me.”

“His brazenness could get him caught,” Brian pointed out. The garage echoed with the squeal of car tires as someone peeled out of a nearby parking space. He moved closer to Angie and studied the car as it roared past.

“I doubt it,” she argued, her eyes following the retreating car.

“The man is blocking his thoughts this time, preventing you from reading them.”

“Can someone do that?”

“I’ve heard some people are capable of mind control, particularly those trained in the martial arts.”

“And how am I supposed to work around that?” she asked, frustration filling her voice.

“There has to be a chink in his armor. He can’t practice mind control all the time.”

“Shit! There’s no way I’m stacking the deck against him. He’s got the upper hand, making me powerless.”

He studied her, a question nagging at his reporter’s instincts. Why did she appear more emotional about this victim than the last one? Was it because she hadn’t been able to help save Tucker’s boy, or was it something else?

“Do we need to call Dunning and report this?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

With no cell reception in the garage, he needed to go outside to make the call. Worried about her safety, he wanted her to go with him but she refused. Silently cursing her stubbornness, he quickly made the call and returned to her. She stood by the open car door clutching a dead rose in her hand, her face pale, her eyes closed.

He’d seen her receive visions before and knew she’d just experienced one. “Angie?” he said softly. “What did you see?”

She opened her eyes, stared for a moment at the flower then dropped it. Dried petals broke from the stem and scattered. “A grave,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I’ve seen a grave.” She looked at him. “A small mound of dirt. A child’s grave with dead roses scattered across it.”

He thought of another grave, his own son’s, covered with fresh flowers. He gritted his teeth, fighting off long-suppressed emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. God, he hated when the memories flooded back. Memories he’d worked hard to compartmentalize with everything else in his life he wanted to forget. Was Joe right? Was returning to Vegas a mistake?

Tucking the image away, he forced himself to focus on her. “Could you see where the grave was?”

“No. The vision was like all the others. A brief flash that quickly vanished.” Fear filled her eyes.

“Don’t go there. Polly is alive.”

“But the grave.” She brushed at the tears welling up. This time he gently pulled her into his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder. It had been a long time since a woman sought solace from him. When their son died, his wife refused the comfort he’d wanted to give. Comfort he’d needed in return, but never received. Instead, she gave him divorce papers.

When he finally let her go, her tear-filled eyes held a look he couldn’t decipher. Dunning arrived before he could figure it out.

The man and his team quickly bagged the dead flowers and the note.

“Miss Martin, do you have any idea who would have given you these flowers?” Dunning asked.

“No, I don’t. Do you have any idea how they got in my car since the door’s locked,” she snapped back

“Someone must have a key and a somewhat sick sense of humor,” he said.

“Did you see the note? I wouldn’t call that humor.” Brian’s contempt for the man welled up. Angie was frightened and this man was treating what had happened lightly. What a jackass.

“And no one else has a key to my car,” she countered.

“Well, we’ll have to impound your car to go over it for evidence,” Dunning said.

“Impound my car. Great! How am I supposed to get to work?” she asked.

“There’s always the bus,” Dunning called out as he directed one of the other agents to phone for a tow truck.

With this the man headed for his car, leaving his team in charge.

“A bus,” she muttered. “What an arrogant bastard.”

Brian chuckled, putting his arm around Angie. She didn’t pull away. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a ride.”

Brian gave a fuming Angie a ride to her apartment. When he insisted he check out her place before she entered, she muttered something about her life not being her own anymore. He tried to bring her back into his arms, but she refused any more comfort from him. As he left, he warned her to lock her door and secure the chain. She slammed the door in his face.

Right now their personal relationship was tentative. Could it dissolve like ice cream left in the hot sun come morning when the newspaper article appeared? He hoped not. He’d meant to tell her about the story he’d just filed, but the dead flowers sidetracked him.

Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the psychic’s involvement in the case. No, he told himself, getting into his car. He didn’t withhold information when writing a story. His readers wanted all the facts. His desire for Angie now warred with his responsibility as a journalist, and that wasn’t good.

****

A loud clap of thunder rattled the adobe’s windows. The little girl started crying again, high-pitched keening sobs that irritated the shit out of him. Storming into the bedroom, he yelled at her to be quiet. Instead she puckered up her little red face and cried harder.

His hands clenched into angry fists. Watching the tears stream from her frightened eyes, he told himself to calm down. Take deep breaths to better control his temper. Something he’d never been good at.

Impatient anger ate at him when he attempted to feed her another bottle of sedative-laced milk. She refused it, turning her face away and clenching her mouth shut.

“Damn you! Cooperate!” he yelled, stomping out of the room. He had things to do, a schedule to keep. Damn if he’d mollycoddle the tied-up kid. Nor would he molest her. His fun would come with the game he played with Angie and the authorities.

Heading into the living room, he nearly tripped over the wheelchair. “Damn,” he swore, sending the thing across the room.

****

Not wishing to be alone after he arrived back at the condo complex, Brian stopped at the casino’s bar to enjoy a beer and eat. The casino remained surprisingly quiet. The only real action came from a group of people surrounding a guy playing a row of dollar slots. When he began to lose, the cheers subsided and the crowd dissipated leaving the poor guy to grieve his monetary losses alone.

Finishing the last of his beer, he headed upstairs. Walking down the hall, he spotted a bunch of colorful birthday balloons bobbing from the condo’s door handle. It wasn’t his birthday. The kidnapper had struck again. The card read “Rub-a-dub, dub, three people in a tub. Is it time to go for a swim?”

“What the hell does that mean?” he muttered, and why was he now being targeted? It was like the kidnapper thought there was a personal relationship between Angie and him. The article didn’t imply this. He remembered the moment outside the San Diego police station when she’d sought comfort from him and they’d shared that heated kiss. How could the kidnapper know about that? Had he been spying on them? This thought sent an uneasy feeling coursing through him.

Entering the condo, he pulled his cell phone out. He knew he needed to call Dunning, but he wanted to call Angie first. She’d been frustrated by the lack of clues, and this new one made even less sense than the others. The wild goose chase continued.

****

Loud voices woke her from a sound sleep at 3 A.M. Listening, she groaned and rolled over. Her windows were closed and the wall air conditioner was running, but she could still hear her neighbors screaming at each other. Shouting a string of profanities, the husband stomped out slamming the door behind him.

This wasn’t the first time the couple exchanged angry words in the middle of the night. He worked the night shift at a nearby casino. On payday, he’d go to the casino bar, belt down a few, and head for the gaming tables where he’d promptly lose his week’s paycheck.

Angie hated casinos, avoided them when she could. The ringing of the slot machines, the shouts of winners, and the despair of losers overwhelmed her. The frenzied energy of those searching for the illusive pot of gold gave her splitting headaches.