EIGHT
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8
Galen had come into Prosperity separately from Hollis and DeMarco and a bit earlier, in an ordinary light-colored sedan that didn’t scream fed or anything else to attract attention. As per orders, he drove around the town of Prosperity and surrounding neighborhoods, seeing what he could see in the daylight that was rapidly becoming twilight.
His psychic ability—if it could be called that, and he had often doubted so aloud—was not one that required any sort of mental shield. But in his work for the SCU, he was most often cast in the role of watcher or guardian, and both suited his innately guarded, watchful nature, all of which had built or intensified a pretty impressive shield.
He was, other psychics had told him, buttoned up tight.
But that natural shielding had failed him during the SCU’s extended investigation of a deadly, charismatic cult leader more than a year before, and though not another soul blamed him for what went down, he still blamed himself for the terrible toll taken when everything hit the fan, the loss of innocents, and the blows dealt to the SCU.
No matter what Bishop said to the contrary.
Galen had taken time away from the SCU after that, time he’d badly needed to come to terms with what had happened because the blows to him had been both unexpected and deeply personal. And time he’d needed to also come to terms with his own once-latent and now-awakened abilities.
Bishop hadn’t said anything about that, about new abilities, and neither had Galen. All Bishop had said, mildly, was that Galen’s natural shield had developed into one that was “nearly seamless.”
Seamless or not, Galen’s shield had not stopped the blast of sensations that had summoned other psychics to Prosperity. Even though he had not been summoned himself. And yet he had been. Galen hadn’t explained it to anyone, least of all himself; all he knew was that he needed to be here. That he had a part to play as well in whatever would happen here.
And once in the valley, he had felt the energy. His skin wasn’t crawling, but he was nevertheless aware of it. The longer he drove around, minding the speed limit and not otherwise calling attention to himself, the more aware of it he became. It was . . . pressure. Something bearing down on him.
And on Prosperity.
It was not pleasant.
At first glance, both citizens of Prosperity and obvious tourists looked and seemed perfectly normal. But Galen looked closer, and he observed signs that virtually everyone he saw was both a little tense and almost imperceptibly distracted. He noted a few arguments breaking out here and there, nothing violent but . . . tense. Unusual sort of thing to see out in public in a small town like this one.
Then again, he was also aware by the time he had completed a very thorough exploration inside the town limits of Prosperity and around the periphery that details of the morning’s inexplicable suicide had gotten out, that details of this same day’s multiple homicide were also spreading rapidly, so it was no wonder people appeared tense.
They were quite likely scared shitless.
Galen had not contacted Base or the team of Hollis and DeMarco in order to learn about the multiple homicide; there was a single radio station in town, and even though the local news report had been interrupted frequently by bursts of static, Galen heard what he needed to over his car’s radio. He’d already tried his cell, but, as Hollis and DeMarco had suspected and warned Base before coming into town, it proved to be useless. There should have been a strong signal given the four very tall cell towers he’d seen well placed in the valley, but on his cell the bars indicating signal strength were literally dancing up and down, from absolutely no signal to a full-strength signal—the entire end-to-end dance lasting for about three seconds. Not nearly long enough to even attempt a call or text.
He turned it off and tossed it over his shoulder to land on his go bag in the backseat.
Then, having explored as much as he could before darkness made that a fairly useless proposition, he turned his car toward the sheriff’s department to meet up with Hollis and DeMarco, as previously agreed.
His timing was perfect. He pulled into a parking slot beside the newly arrived hulking black SUV before its brake lights could go off.
Getting out of his car, he spared a long moment to study the Foxx County Sheriff’s Department. He found it to be a newish, fair-sized two-story building two streets back from Main and occupying most of a block if you included the sizable parking lot beside and behind the building.
It looked more than adequate, especially since Prosperity was the only town of any size in the county.
He joined Hollis and DeMarco on the sidewalk in front of their vehicles. “Local radio reported the multiple homicide,” he said.
Neither of them appeared surprised that he hadn’t bothered with a hello.
Hollis said, “Yeah, we heard the report on the way over here, even if the SUV’s radio was crackling with static. How’s your shield?” she added, not bothering to lower her voice because there was no one within earshot.
“Pressure,” he replied.
“Nothing else?”
Galen shook his head in a slight movement.
Hollis eyed him for a moment, then looked at her partner and said dryly, “It’s a good thing you’ve started to be more talkative. Otherwise I’d mostly be talking to myself.”
“I thought you did that anyway,” Galen said.
Refusing to take the bait except with a brief narrowing of her eyes, Hollis merely said, “The medical examiner is someone we’ve worked with before, Jill Easton. She’s clairvoyant, one of those Bishop wanted but didn’t get—except occasionally as part of the state networks of docs trained to serve as MEs. She’s still at the scene of the multiple. We only had a minute to warn her to shore up her shields, but she seemed calm enough before the warning, so maybe she won’t be adversely affected. Hopefully, anyway.”
Galen nodded.
“We’re supposed to meet with Sheriff Archer and his chief deputy inside. Unless the plan’s changed or something happens along the way to change it, Bishop’s sending Victoria and Logan in tonight, and the rest tomorrow.”
“I know Victoria’s supposed to have a strong shield,” Galen said. “But Logan?”
“We think it’s a good idea to find out how a medium reacts to the energy in this valley.”
It was Galen’s turn to eye Hollis. He had a couple of questions but asked only one. “You don’t already know?”
“Afraid not. My primary ability, but not my only one, so I can’t really be sure. I’m trying to keep my shield up, but my skin’s crawling a bit. My guess is that what I’m feeling isn’t spiritual energy, but Logan’s the only one who may be able to tell us that for certain, because that’s definitely his whole focus. And it’s something we need to rule out—or rule in. To help define this energy.”
“Have you seen any spirits?”
“No.” She frowned suddenly. “Though, to be honest, I haven’t been looking for them. Maybe my shield is stronger than we thought. Or maybe this energy is interfering.”
DeMarco said, “Probably both. You said the spirit who told you we had to come here was . . . different somehow.”
“Yeah. Sort of . . . wavery. Sort of like heat off pavement. But since she was crying I was too busy trying not to cry to figure out what else might be going on.”
Galen said, “The downside of multiple abilities.”
“One of them,” she agreed ruefully. “And the empath thing is newest and was triggered in a different way, so it’s giving me more trouble. This whole valley is filled with freaked-out people. And not just spooked, but scared and tense and irritable as hell. A state of affairs I expect to get worse before it gets better.” She drew a breath and added calmly, “So if I start snapping at you guys, don’t take it personally.”
Galen glanced at DeMarco and noted that Hollis’s partner was a bit tense himself, something he rarely showed. “Both shields?” he asked.
“Yeah. And holding. A sense of pressure, apparently what you’re sensing, but it’s not bad.”
“Then she’s the one you’re tense about?”
“She is standing right here,” Hollis snapped. Then she closed her eyes briefly, lifting both hands unconsciously palm-out in a “hold it” gesture. Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, settled her shoulders, and stared at Galen. “Sorry. Since we don’t know just how this energy is going to affect us, especially over time, we thought at least one of us should be as protected as possible. That means Reese keeps both shields up. But he’s still aware of how I’m feeling. Which, yes, is very tense.”
“Got it,” Galen murmured.
“So, right now, you and Reese are as protected as any of us are likely to be from this energy. And from whatever it’s doing to people. We hope. We also hope Victoria’s shield will be solid here, and will protect her.”
“And Logan?”
It was DeMarco who said, “Risky as hell, but we need to know if this is spiritual energy. If it is, he should know quickly enough. And even though he hasn’t been able to shut out spiritual energy, Bishop believes he does have a kind of shield.”
“A kind of shield?”
“His words, not mine.”
“And,” Hollis said, “Logan was summoned. They all were.”
“By some . . . force . . . we know nothing about,” Galen reminded them. “I don’t like it when I get invited to a party by somebody I don’t know. It stinks. I still say it could be a trap.”
“Of course it could,” Hollis said. “But considering that only eight psychics were summoned, it seems like an odd way to go about setting a trap for only a handful of us. There are a hell of a lot more than eight just here in our country, quite a few arguably quite powerful. And why invite us here at all?”
“That’s true of this whole damned thing. Why are we here?”
“What we’re here to try and find out,” she reminded him. She began to turn toward the walkway to the front doors of the sheriff’s department and stopped as though she’d run into a wall, her slender body racked with a sudden, visible shudder. Even in the deepening twilight, it was obvious she went pale.
“Hollis?”
She looked at her partner, for a moment almost blindly, then said in a very steady voice, “We need to hurry.”
Neither of the two men asked questions.
ARCHER MET THEM just inside the sheriff’s department, in the lobby, which was fairly spacious and contained a couple of benches for anybody who needed to wait and a high desk, behind which sat a very alert deputy. Glass doors opened on either side of the lobby, both, as typical of most law enforcement buildings given the current troubled times, guarded by coded locks, the number pad beside each mute evidence of security measures.
Hollis introduced Galen, aware by the fact that the sheriff looked no worse than he had at the Gardner home that news of another event had not yet reached the station. But she knew it was coming, and soon.
She had felt it, two sharp bursts of pain tangled with shock and confusion. And then nothing. Whatever she’d felt wasn’t close, she thought. At a guess, whatever had happened had been on the outskirts of Prosperity. At another guess, they were beyond help.
She knew Reese was aware of what she had felt, but they had decided on the way from the multiple homicide scene that the mind talk that was so much a part of their connection now should be used only when they were alone or needed to communicate something privately. Otherwise, things were apt to get confusing.
It was confusing enough for the two of them; though thoughts were clear and easy, Hollis’s uncertain control over her newest ability meant that DeMarco was sometimes slammed by an emotion that wasn’t his or hers.
Which tended to disconcert even DeMarco.
Archer indicated the door on their right, saying briefly, “That leads to stairs and the second floor. Administrative, the main communications center, and other technical areas my deputies don’t need to access regularly are all up there. This other door is the one we’ll use most often. Bullpen, offices, conference room, break room, locker rooms, restrooms. Plus interview rooms and a dozen cells in the back.”
“We don’t have to swipe a card, do we?” Hollis asked a bit distractedly as she looked at the number pad.
“No, and it’s a simple code. Nine-one-one-oh-one. Easy to remember. To be honest, I’ve always thought the security for this building was tighter than necessary, at least here in Prosperity, but we followed the recommended security setup for law enforcement buildings in this state.” Then he frowned. “A card would have been a problem?”
She smiled quickly. “I’m one of those people who affects things like magnetic cards, especially those for hotels and other door locks. I’ve been known to screw up ATMs too.”
“Katie’s the same,” he said, nodding, then added, “Chief Deputy Katie Cole. She’s getting things set up in the conference room. If you’ll all come this way?”
They followed him, through the bullpen that was mostly deserted except for three deputies, two of them talking on landline phones while taking notes and the third frowning in obvious frustration at his computer console. It was a sizable bullpen holding more than a dozen desks, and they could see the adjoining conference room, since the wall between the two spaces was glass from about halfway from the floor to nearly the ceiling.
When they went into the conference room, they found a scene that was familiar to Hollis and DeMarco and less so to Galen since he tended to spend more time out in the field, often literally outside, during a case. There was an oval conference table that could seat about a dozen people in relative comfort, with a power strip down the middle and a conference phone sitting in the center. Whiteboards had been set up along the wall opposite the glass partition to the bullpen, blank but with markers and erasers ready.
Archer introduced his chief deputy, Katie Cole, and if her smile was welcoming and easygoing when she greeted the feds, there was definite strain in her hazel eyes.
Hollis knew immediately that she was psychic but wasn’t sure of the specific ability.
“We don’t have much in the way of a start in here,” she said to the feds a bit wryly. “The photos we took this morning at the Bowers house and the ones from the Gardners’ are being printed out now—if one of our techs can fix the printer. We have deputies out talking to people related to or friends with both families, and with neighbors. We haven’t called in anyone to give a statement yet. The notes taken by deputies are being printed out—or just copied with a bit more neatness and detail from their notes.” She grimaced slightly. “Our printers and computers are being as temperamental as the cells and radios.”
“Getting worse?” Hollis asked.
“Yeah, seems to be. It was just the cells and radios at first. Now it’s electronics in general.” Katie started to reach for the nape of her neck but quickly stopped herself.
Hollis knew the feeling. She wanted to rub the nape of her own neck, which was not only tense but a bit crawly, worse than it had been earlier.
“I don’t get that,” Archer said, frowning. “We’ve never had any trouble before, and it’s not like the equipment we’re using is either too old and breaking down, or too new and still full of bugs.”
Hollis hesitated, still unsure of how the sheriff would react to what he needed to know, but there was a clock ticking in her head and it was getting louder. Any minute now, they were going to be called to the scene of yet another baffling, violent event he would most certainly find inexplicable, and she just didn’t know . . .
Making up her mind for better or worse, Hollis half sat on the conference table and looked squarely at Archer. “Sheriff, how much do you know about energy? Electrical, magnetic?”
His frown deepened as he returned her gaze. “About as much as any layman, I guess. We use a hell of a lot of electrical energy every day to run our homes and offices, all our gadgets. Magnetic energy . . . Hell, I don’t know. Are we talking about the cells and radios not working right? Equipment not working right?”
“Yes. And why it’s getting worse. And why people are dying in your town.” Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“It’s connected?” He didn’t look or sound disbelieving, just startled and baffled.
“We believe it is. For some reason we don’t—yet—understand, there’s an abnormal amount of electrical and magnetic energy in this valley. Highly abnormal. We don’t know the source, don’t know if it’s more than one source. We don’t know if it’s permanent or temporary. We don’t know if it’s a naturally occurring phenomenon or something being . . . manufactured.”
“Deliberately? By a person?”
“It’s been done before. You know about EMPs—electromagnetic pulses?”
“Yeah, they’re supposed to knock out electronics.”
“Right, they do. Electrical energy can be overloaded. Shorted out. The current can also be unstable; it can surge, become much, much stronger as well as much weaker, suddenly.”
“Okay, I get all that. I even get—sort of—that something like that could be interfering with cell service and our radios, the computers. Hell, sunspots do that. But the murders today—”
Hollis kept her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “The human brain is basically an organic, electromagnetic computer. Our thoughts, our actions, our emotions, all are created, triggered, controlled, by electrical impulses in our brains. Synapses firing off all the time, faster than thought. Different areas of the brain responsible for different things, lighting up when active and going dark when not. If a specific area of the brain is stimulated by an electrical current, or influenced by a strong enough magnetic field, then the brain . . . responds.”
“With suicide and murder?” There was, now, disbelief.
“Remember when I told you there was a lot of strange and crazy in the world? We’ve seen a fair amount of that. Enough to not discount something that’s scientifically possible—even if wildly unlikely.”
“Like energy that—drives somebody to kill?”
“Yeah, like that.”
ELLIOT WESTON SET his gun down on the kitchen counter and looked at his two clients in a sort of vague curiosity. Former clients. Charles Simmons had a neat, round hole in his casual shirt just above his heart and a very surprised look on his ugly face.
One or more of the bones in his burly chest must have stopped the bullet, Elliot realized, because there was no sign of blood from an exit wound underneath his sprawled body.
Lorna Simmons lay beside him, her mouth open, wide eyes blank, her clipboard flung aside. There was a neat, round hole in the center of her blouse, and beneath her body a pool of scarlet blood was spreading slowly.
Smaller bones, Elliot supposed. Or just a smaller body.
Elliot knew, on some deep, quiet level of himself, that he had done something horrible. Something beyond horrible. But wherever that level was, it was unreachable right now. All he knew was that he was finished here, and he needed to make a few notes in his cell phone.
He turned and went outside, sitting down on one of the white wicker chairs of the nicely staged front porch, and pulled his phone from his pocket.
No bars at all, he noted, but he didn’t need to make a call. He just needed to make a few notes on his schedule, that was all. Notes that this house was still available, that maybe they should look for less demanding clients next time.
He made his notes and put his phone away, then just sat there staring peacefully into space. He felt very calm.
ARCHER MOVED A little way around the conference table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He could see all of them from his position, his gaze roving from one calm face to another. Even Katie’s face, he noted, was calm. Until a fleeting wince tightened her features, and she reached up absently to rub the nape of her neck.
She’d been doing that a lot lately, he realized.
“So . . . electricity made Sam Bowers kill himself. Electricity made Leslie Gardner slaughter her entire family. Her kids. That’s what you’re telling me.” Archer knew he sounded incredulous. He felt incredulous. And it was sort of good to feel something other than sick horror.
Hollis moved to take a seat directly facing the sheriff, and the others pulled out chairs as well. She said, “No, that isn’t what I’m telling you. It isn’t that simple. Not exactly electricity. Energy.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Electricity is only one form of energy. There’s nuclear energy, for instance. Atomic. Solar. Wind. It can all be converted to what we call electrical energy, and used by us that way. But there’s also energy we don’t . . . actively use. There’s an electromagnetic field around most living things. Around this planet. The sun. Around the electrical devices we use every day.”
Seemingly without being aware of it, she reached up a hand to rub the nape of her neck, her unusual blue eyes remaining fixed on his face. “There are even some people who claim that if we can ever learn how to . . . understand, really understand energy, we’ll find that it really does make up most of our universe. Even, perhaps, that part of us we choose to call our souls.”
For just an instant, Archer was tempted to follow that interesting tangent—at least, he hoped it was a tangent—but then he shook off the temptation. Carefully, he said, “I’ve never heard of energy influencing people to kill.”
“We have,” Hollis said simply. She appeared to realize she was rubbing her neck, and stopped, clasping her hands together on the table before her with a fleeting frown.
“Some of that weird and crazy you mentioned?”
She nodded. “Up until now, what we’ve seen has been . . . relatively minor. People manipulating energy to affect other people. Generally one-on-one.”
Archer blinked. “That’s possible?”
“Very possible. There are scientists studying it all over the world, with various . . . implications in mind. But actual cases we’ve had to deal with have been, as I said, relatively minor.”
“And what’s here isn’t minor.”
“Definitely not. We’re talking about energy capable of affecting the thoughts and actions of human beings. People’s minds are not that easily influenced, at least not directly, not like this. Not to do something so drastic and horrific as kill, especially kill family. But the energy that appears to be trapped in this valley is very unusual, as I said. And becoming stronger, more intense. It’s likely to affect a great many people as it does that. With luck, most of the effects will be minor: temper tantrums, fist fights, arguments. If we’re not so lucky, more people are going to die.”
Since Archer appeared stunned, DeMarco spoke up then to say, “We believe it’s what’s also disrupting radios and cell service; that’s a common enough occurrence with any spike in electricity, any energy surge. As you said, even sunspots can affect communications. Affecting electrical equipment takes a stronger surge, a more intense energy field. The most sensitive and sophisticated would be affected first. Like computer equipment.”
“First?” Archer said uneasily.
“We’re afraid the intensifying energy could have an increasing and even cumulative effect on equipment. And on people, as Hollis said.”
“This is nuts.” He shook his head. “Not weird or crazy, just nuts. Insane.”
Quietly, Hollis said, “More insane than Sam Bowers blowing his brains out this morning for no apparent reason? More insane than Leslie Gardner slaughtering her family—and then just going to sleep?”
Archer stared at her.
“There are more things in heaven and earth,” she murmured. Then she added in a stronger voice, “The Special Crimes Unit has encountered a lot of weird and crazy, as we’ve told you. That’s one of the reasons the unit was formed, one of the reasons the FBI, not known for fanciful beliefs, far less insane ones, was convinced the unit was necessary.”
That reminder of something official and solid he could understand and hold on to seemed to steady Archer.
“The FBI. Right. So—how does law enforcement fight something like . . . energy?”
“It depends on the source, but generally energy is fought with a different kind of energy, stronger or more focused, maybe more under control. In our case, it’s fought by law enforcement officers and others who understand energy and who have been trained to use their abilities to deal with it.”
“Their abilities?” He felt himself going adrift again.
Hollis glanced around the table, at her partner, at Galen, and lastly at Chief Deputy Katie Cole, who was studying her thumbnail very intently. Hollis smiled faintly, ruefully, then met Archer’s suspicious gaze directly.
“We in the SCU have a lot of tools in our investigative toolbox,” she told him calmly. “We’ve all been well trained. So we have the usual law enforcement skill with weapons and observation and interrogation techniques. Defensive driving. Knowledge of law. Some of us are profilers. Most of us, really. We have some . . . fairly esoteric skills for cops. Reese is a pilot. I’m an artist. We can both pick a lock with a certain amount of skill, and Galen can disarm most security systems—in the dark.”
Archer looked at the other two very calm men, frowning, then back at Hollis. “Okay,” he said slowly.
Her smile widened just a bit at his wariness. “We’re cops, bottom line, just like you. We were all trained by the FBI, standard Bureau training as a solid base, and if we have more unusual tools for the toolbox than most agents, it’s because our unit chief saw the potential years ago, and decided there was talent being wasted. So he went out and found us. People with abilities that could help investigate crimes and catch criminals, of course, as well as abilities to deal with things most cops or federal agents were never trained to deal with.”
Archer zeroed in. “Unusual tools. Exactly what sort of unusual tools are you talking about? Specifically?”
Hollis sent a pained glance toward her partner. “I don’t dance around a subject well, do I?”
“Not your strong suit,” he agreed with a faint smile.
“Agent—” Archer began.
“Hollis. We’re very informal. Though if you forget names, Agent is fine too.” Her glance sort of lifted away from him suddenly and seemed to be fixed on something in the distance, the very blue eyes going even brighter, almost luminous, narrowing. “We don’t mind,” she added absently.
“Okay, then. Hollis, what the hell are you talking about?” His voice might have been a bit sharper than he’d intended.
She blinked, looked at him, then smiled. “Sorry. Things are about to get even crazier, so I couldn’t really dance around it even if it were my strong suit. Sheriff, the Special Crimes Unit is made up, mostly, of psychics. We’re all cops, we’re all trained, we’re all experienced, and we’ve been working with law enforcement agencies all over the country, particularly here in the southeast, for quite a few years now.”
Archer opened his mouth, but Hollis went on before he could say a word.
“You talked to our unit chief, Special Agent Bishop; if you want to call him back he can furnish you with a list of references as long as your arm, other sheriffs and chiefs of police and detectives, city cops and county cops and state cops, quite a number of them within a few hundred or so miles of Prosperity, all of whom will be happy to furnish testimonials or just talk to you awhile about their own experiences with . . . strange and crazy.”
After a long moment, Archer said slowly, “I always heard my grandmother had the Sight. Never knew her, though.”
“We’ve found that sort of knowledge or awareness common, in these mountains especially,” Hollis said. “They’re old mountains, and people have been here a long time. Long enough to accept that . . . there are more things in heaven and earth than they teach us about in school.”
After another long moment, Archer said with commendable calm, “You didn’t really change the subject with all this, did you? It’s still about—energy.”
“It’s still about energy.” She frowned briefly, then said, “I hate parlor tricks, but . . . Any minute now one of your deputies is going to come rushing in here to tell you that two more people have been killed. Inexplicably. Horribly. Strangely.”
“How do you know that?”
“I felt it. Just a few minutes ago. Two people dead. And . . . a killer you’ll find inexplicable.”
Archer opened his mouth, beginning to look angry, but was prevented from saying what he obviously wanted to when a deputy rushed in, face white, and burst out with words that tumbled over themselves in a hurry to get out.
“Sheriff—we’ve got another one. At least it has to be— In that new development on the outskirts of town. A real estate agent shot and killed the couple he was showing a house to. A neighbor heard the shots and went to see and—and the guy’s just sitting on the front porch, smiling. Like nothing happened. The couple is dead in the kitchen. The real estate guy’s gun is on the kitchen counter. And—and he’s just sitting on the front porch. Smiling.”