Torn (Second Sight) (2 page)

“And here he is,” Ben said. “Mac MacMillan. The best profiler the FBI has
ever
had and the man who saved my daughter.” Ben clapped him on the back as they shook hands. “Good to see you, Mac.”

“You too, Ben. Though I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

Mac held out his hand to the father, who ignored it.

“I want to offer a reward,” the man said. “Right now.”

Dr. Caras looked to be in his mid-fifties, was trim, dark complexioned and dark-eyed, in keeping with the Greek last name. He was also apparently used to being in charge.
 

“We’ll take that under advisement,” Mac said, unruffled by the snub or the ordering tone in the man’s voice. “But for now, we’re keeping the media out of this. Images of Angela are already at all the airports, trains, and bus stations, plus everywhere at the hospital where she was last seen.”

“A reward will help to find our daughter!” his wife yelled, as she stood up and next to her husband. Like Dr. Caras, she was dressed immaculately, accessorized, her hair and make-up perfect.
Appearances obviously meant a lot
, Mac noted.
 

“It only makes
sense
,” the doctor agreed.
 

“You might be surprised to find,” Mac said evenly, “that most people who really help an investigation, simply want to help. They’re not motivated by money. What we don’t need is to start a panic about the Priest or to court crank calls.” He glanced at Ben. “I’m sure Director Olivos has told you what we’re doing and that we have every intention of finding Angela. Every resource that we have is focused on her this very moment. Let us do our jobs.”

“And what is that exactly?” asked Dr. Caras, his voice getting louder. “What are you doing?”

“What I’m doing right now is profiling,” Mac said, letting his voice get louder in response. “I’m building a view of the victim based on how I see you two behave.” He paused to let that sink in. “She didn’t arrive punctually for dinner, which was very unusual, and she’s following in her father’s career choice. I’ll go out on a limb and say that choosing another career and being late for dinner are frowned upon.” Angela’s mother had been about to protest. “More to the point, Angela is probably someone who can be characterized as intelligent, a good student, without a boyfriend, someone who follows the rules, is quiet, seems well-liked but doesn’t have many friends, and likes to spend time in her room.” The two of them stared at him, stunned. “My assistant, Special Agent Sharon Lyang,” he pointed at her, “is going to be coordinating a command post from here. She’s our eyes and ears for any and all data that’s coming in from investigators out there working right now. I’m going upstairs to take a look at Angela’s room to see if I can find a journal, a diary, or a computer that might shed any light on how she might have been left vulnerable to an abduction.”
 

Again, neither of them had anything to say. Mac turned to Ben.

“Sharon’s got the latest notes on my profile of the Priest,” Mac said to him. “Could you go over it with the Caras’s while I’m upstairs and see if there’s anybody in their lives or Angela’s that might remotely match?”

Ben smiled at him–a knowing little smile like a proud uncle.

“Sure thing, Mac,” he said.

• • • • •

Isabelle checked her dress in the mirror. She’d changed three times before finally settling on it and she hoped Mac would like it.
At least I know he likes me in dresses
, she thought as she examined herself in profile. Her accidental read of him had been the first inkling that he found her attractive, in particular, her shapely legs.

She smiled at the memory though the smile quickly faded.

Though the reading had been quick she’d sensed roiling emotions beneath his calm exterior: anger over Esme’s abduction, grief connected to a dark-haired woman, and concern for herself after she’d read something of Esme’s.

Isabelle looked down at her bare hands. Though she liked wearing dresses, the real reason they were almost mandatory was that they went better with the gloves than jeans. Not that people didn’t stare. The gloves always drew some looks. But wearing them with clothes that were too casual was strange enough that everybody looked. She glanced at the open dresser drawer where she kept her collection, arranged in pairs, different colors to match her outfits. Then she stared down at her hands again.

I have to read Mac…

Isabelle sat down on the edge of the bed. She’d used gloves to change the sheets only an hour ago. They were the sheets that Mac and she had used–objects so full of him that touching them would be a partial reading.

To intentionally use her gift of psychometry with him would mean knowing him,
really
knowing him. It was the kind of truth that not a single one of her relationships had survived. But
not
to read Mac meant wearing the gloves whenever they were together–
forever
. She was torn. To move their relationship to that next step of intimacy was something she desperately wanted but at the same time it risked the one thing she couldn’t stand–losing him.

Back and forth she’d argued with herself.

Do it
, said the desperate side.

“I can’t,” Isabelle muttered for the fearful side.

Abruptly, she stood up.
 

Stop it. This is what happens when you have too much time on your hands.

The silent cell phone on the nightstand was testimony to that very fact. The strategy to rattle the Priest had involved her saying publicly that she was a fake. Only the most dedicated clients had stuck with her. But as she went to the drawer and picked up a pair of gloves, it wasn’t customers that she hoped would call. It was Mac–and
that
call couldn’t come soon enough.

Though they’d set up the phone taps and a trace as standard procedure, Mac hadn’t been convinced that the Priest would call. There had only been one time that he had–when Isabelle had been involved. As far as case file data went, he’d never tried to contact the families of the other four victims. Once the Priest’s
modus operandi
had been analyzed from Esme’s case, it hadn’t taken long to recognize similar cases.

So when Mac had heard the phone ring while searching Angela’s room, he’d assumed it was another call from family or friends. But the pounding of feet on the stairs and in the hallway, let Mac know this call was different. Sergeant Dixon appeared breathless in the doorway.
 

“It’s him,” he said, standing aside as Mac barreled out of the room and then down to the living room.

Dr. Caras was sitting in one of the high-back chairs grouped around the brass table and Sharon crouched next to him, wearing headphones and pointing at a sheet of paper on the table. This was the standard script that Mac had asked Sharon to draft in order to help whoever was on the phone keep the Priest on long enough to triangulate his cell phone.

As he strode to the computer table at the opposite end of the room, Ben handed him a set of headphones.

“You listen to me,” Dr. Caras was saying. “I want to speak with my daughter.”

Mac shot a look at Sharon who grimaced and repeatedly tapped the script with her index finger. Making demands was not part of the dialogue.

“Get the psychic,” the Priest said, calmly and firmly. “Get Isabelle de Grey.”

“
What?
” Dr. Caras said. “Who?”

Sharon scribbled furiously on the script as Mac froze.
 

Isabelle?

“Look, you twisted bastard,” Dr. Caras said as he waved Sharon off. “You let me talk to my daughter.”

Mac clenched his jaw and Sharon threw her hands in the air as she stood. Dr. Caras would
not
be answering the phone in the future. But as he listened for the Priest’s response, Mac’s mind raced.
 

Why Isabelle? He had vilified her before. She’d been party to the only time the Priest had been thwarted. Was it still a battle between good and evil, between him and her?

“The psychic,” the Priest repeated. “In one hour.”

Then he hung up.

Mac glanced down at the agent on the computer, typing furiously, hitting the return key, and then waiting. A cursor blinked, almost in slow motion, and finally a line of text appeared. Two towers were hit, both of them near the coast. That fit. Four of the five killings had occurred west of the 405 freeway. But it wasn’t enough to narrow the call area down to something searchable. And without knowing the make and model of the gray, Japanese compact that Esme and Isabelle had seen, a visual search of traffic cameras in the area would be pointless, turning up hundreds if not thousands of hits.

Mac took off the headset as Sharon tore hers off and grabbed the script from the table.

“That was not only unhelpful,” she said loudly. “It was also potentially damaging. The script is there for a reason.”

“Who in the hell is this
psychic
?” Dr. Caras yelled at her as he stood.
 

Though not tall, he still towered over the diminutive Asian agent. Mac immediately headed toward the two of them. Though he’d responded automatically to protect her, he needn’t have.

“
Back up
, Dr. Caras,” Sharon said through clenched teeth, her nostrils flaring, as she widened her stance and moved her elbows away from her body. “
Right now.
”

Caras blinked at her a couple of times and then did just that.

“Isabelle de Grey,” Ben said to Dr. Caras, disgust dripping from every word, “was my wife’s psychic.”

“The Priest spoke with her last time,” Mac said, taking the phone from his pocket, about to dial Isabelle.

“This is
ridiculous
,” Caras said, regaining some steam. “I won’t permit it.”

“Look,” Ben said. “I don’t like it any better than you. The woman is a complete charlatan.” Mac’s finger paused over the call button as he watched Ben’s face. His nose wrinkled as though he smelled something foul and there was a tiny curl to his upper lip. “But,” Ben went on. “We don’t really have a choice.”

Mac hadn’t realized how vehemently Ben had opposed Isabelle.
 

“She was instrumental in cracking the case,” Mac said.

“She unnerved the Priest,” Ben said, shaking his head. “Forced him into mistakes. Nothing more.”

Though Mac’s report had been neutral on the issue of whether Isabelle’s psychic ability had actually helped, clearly Ben had his own interpretation. A strange déjà vu took over as Mac remembered the first time he’d heard of Isabelle. His reaction had been much the same as Ben’s. Everything she’d done could be chalked up to a good guess or understanding people. But now he knew different.

“Do you think she can do that this time?” Caras asked, more interested now. “Force him into a mistake?”

“We’re going to find out,” Ben answered. “Right, Mac?”

• • • • •

It wasn’t exactly the reunion that Isabelle had been envisioning. Mac’s phone call had come as a surprise so early in the day. But what had proved even more startling was the fact that their relationship was a secret. Even now, as Sergeant Dixon pulled into the driveway, it was more what Mac had said that bothered her than the Priest.

‘Unethical’ he’d said. ‘Against the rules.’

Really?

She followed Sergeant Dixon up the tiled path to the ornate entry. At least the sergeant had been happy too see her, had even given her a little hug. As they approached the double doors, Isabelle felt her stomach flutter in anticipation, despite Mac’s phone call. But the scene in the living room was like a jolt of reality. Uniformed police officers, FBI agents, Sharon with a headset on at the computer, and Ben. It was all so frighteningly familiar.
 

And there was Mac, sitting on an ottoman, in the far corner of the room. He looked up from the paperwork in his hand, just as she changed direction to head toward him. A little over six feet tall, with dark and short-cropped hair, Mac’s powerful frame was mostly hidden beneath his dark suit. But the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and square jaw were easy to see.
 

God
, he was every bit as good looking as she’d remembered. She knew
exactly
what lay beneath the starched white shirt and thin, black tie. And as she approached him, his deeply blue-green eyes covered her from head to toe. He stood up from the ottoman and, for an instant, Isabelle pictured herself running to him, throwing herself into his arms, and feeling them close around her. But as Mac extended his hand for a handshake, the image vanished, as did her grin.

“Miss de Grey,” Mac said, his tone serious and his smile forced.

“Special Agent MacMillan,” she said quietly, grasping his hand. Even through the linen glove, it was warm, his squeeze gentle. For a moment, she was lost in his eyes and then the handshake was over.

“This is Dr. Caras,” Mac said, turning away from her. “His daughter Angela was abducted from County USC Medical Center yesterday.”

Though Isabelle turned to say hello to Dr. Caras, Ben stepped in-between them and she came to an abrupt halt.
 

“You’re only here because the Priest wants you here,” he said. “Got that?”

“Got it,” Isabelle responded reflexively.
 

“We don’t want any of that psychic crap. Understand?”

“Ben?” Mac said, before she could answer. His hand was under her elbow, tugging her gently backward. “I’m sure Miss de Grey remembers the drill. But let’s go over the script, just in case.” Mac steered her toward Sharon. “We haven’t got a lot of time.”

At least Sharon smiled at her, if only briefly as she took off the headset and stood.

“Isabelle,” Sharon said. “It’s good to see you.” She glanced at Mac’s hand, still on Isabelle’s elbow, and he let it go. She pushed a single white page of paper toward her on the folding table. Several short paragraphs of typewritten text covered it. “I’m sure you remember that the goal is to keep him on the phone.” Sharon paused and was looking at someone behind Isabelle. “And using the script,” she said, louder than necessary, “will help us do that.”