Chapter One
Summer Cahill opened her eyes and tried to focus on her surroundings. For a moment, she couldn’t figure out where she was. Then, as the simple flowered wallpaper and white furniture became clear, she remembered: Rory Flanagan. A case of measles that mysteriously wouldn’t respond to any medication. Distraught parents.
Children were always the hardest. She worried that she might not be effective. Then she would not only have failed the child but also the parents. But this time, thanks to all her ancestors, it had worked. And Maida Flanagan had been most gracious about giving her a room to rest in as she’d requested. Sometimes the psychic healing only required a light touch. Sometimes, like today, it took everything out of her, and she was always explicit about what the client should expect when she took a case. So the Flanagans had ushered her to their guest room, Maida crying with gratitude, and left her to nap and refresh.
A knock on the door made her sit up.
“Come in, please.” Summer finger-combed her hair, trying to make herself as presentable as possible, and smoothed the fabric of her slacks and blouse.
The door opened, and Maida came in, juggling a tray with two cups, a teapot, and a plate of cookies. “I figured you could use a little refreshment.”
“Oh! How nice. Thank you so much.” Summer swung her legs over the side of the bed. “How’s Rory?”
Tears welled in Maida’s eyes again. “He’s sitting up in bed, playing with one of his trucks. Miss Cahill, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to thank you enough for this.”
“Please, call me Summer. And his recovery is all the thanks I need.”
Maida covered her surge of emotion by setting the tray on the nightstand, fixing their tea, and passing the cookies to Summer.
“Brian insists he wants to give you a check. Just a token of our gratitude,” she added hastily. “I know you said—”
Summer held up her hand. “No. Please. I never take money for this. It’s a gift I inherited from my mother and grandmother, and I don’t think it would be proper to charge people.”
“But—”
“No. Really. I make a very good living designing and maintaining websites. When someone needs me, I share my gift as something from the heart. So thank your husband very much, but no. Perhaps you have a favorite charity you contribute to? That would be the best thing to do.”
“Then you should get some recognition,” Maida insisted. “You performed a miracle.”
“Not quite. But I will insist that there be no publicity about this. Please. It’s my only stipulation. The media creates such a circus about it, and the real healing art is lost in the hoopla. Besides, I don’t need that kind of publicity, and neither does my family.”
Especially my family.
She also didn’t want to mention that anytime anything appeared in the media about her, a stalker she’d somehow picked up made threatening phone calls to her and sent vile letters. She’d talked to the police about it, but whoever it was only called from throwaway cell phones and was smart enough to use latex gloves on the letters he sent. He even used adhesive-backed stamps so there was no way to get DNA from saliva.
Her computer-technician loved both Summer and her mother, but with his, logical mind he didn’t understand psychic healing. He hadn’t accepted it with her mother, and he refused to accept it with his daughter. Her mother denied her heritage completely and her father insisted they not ever draw attention to it. The few times word had gotten out when she was younger, her mother had a fit and her father had whisked them all away to a secluded location until the furor died down. And he continued to plead with them not to use their gift.
But Summer was determined to, just as her grandmother had been. Before she passed away, Nonnie had spent time with Summer, helping her refine and understand the special talent she’d been given. She worked very hard to keep it low-key, not just for her family but also for herself.
“You can count on it, then,” Maida was saying now. “It’s the least we can do.”
“Thank you.” Summer set her cup back on the tray. “I’d better be going.” She smiled. “My paying job calls.”
“Are you all right to drive? Have you rested enough?”
“Oh yes. Trust me. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try it. The nap was great, and the tea and cookies were just the right touch.”
At the front door, Maida hugged her, and then Brian Flanagan took his turn, first shaking her hand, then pulling her into an emotional embrace. And finally, Brian’s sister, Dina, who had come to the house to pray with her brother and sister-in-law, hugged her also.
“We’ll never be able to thank you enough,” said Dina.
“As I told your sister-in-law, a healthy little boy is thanks enough,” Summer assured her.
She finally managed to extricate herself from the three of them and head toward home. It was with a sigh of relief that she pulled into the garage attached to her Craftsman bungalow, tossed her keys and purse on the hall table, and went to pour herself a cold drink.
She wanted to call her mother and give her a report, then put up her feet and take some downtime before attacking her design schedule. She really was grateful for her business. Her left-brain father had taught her most of her basic skills, and computer design school had given her the rest. Her own website had come first, of course, and people just seemed to find her after that. As her client base grew, she found a lot of people coming to her through recommendations—more than enough to earn her a good living. And it somehow satisfied her father that she wasn’t just spending her life on something he considered illogical.
She opened up a spreadsheet on her computer where she always entered the people she was called upon to heal. Under Rory Flanagan’s name, she entered the date and the results of the session. She checked her watch. Four o’clock. Plenty of time to finish the other things she needed to get done today. Tonight she would relax with the book she was reading, a romantic thriller by Faith Wilding, a good friend and one of her favorite authors.
The telephone woke her, its harsh jangle reaching into her deep sleep and pulling her into the bright morning. She hadn’t closed the curtains last night, so blinding sunlight streamed in through the windows. Rubbing her eyes, she picked up the phone and tried to answer coherently.
“Hello?”
“Miss Cahill—Summer—I am so sorry, I don’t know where to begin.” Brian Flanagan’s voice, urgent and upset, came across the line.
“About what?” She scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to wipe away the vestiges of sleep. “Is it Rory? Has something happened?”
Oh, Lord. Please, not that.
“No, no. He’s fine. Better than fine. And for that, we are so grateful.” Brian paused. “It’s about the television.”
“Television?” Her hand clutched the receiver. “What television?”
At that moment, she realized faint crowd noises were filtering in through her windows. Carrying the cordless phone, she made her way to the front of the house and peered through the small glass inset in the door. It was a crowd all right. The circus was back in town. Her stomach clenched, and her hand tightened on the phone.
Three news vans were parked in front of her house, satellite dishes poking up from their roofs. Cameramen with hefty vidcams on their shoulders were jockeying for angles, while reporters with wireless mics were staring at the house as if she might suddenly materialize in their midst. Other reporters, male and female, were gathered on her lawn, poised to pounce the minute she showed herself. A long line of cars and vans was strung out in both directions on the street.
She had barely registered the size of the crowd when her doorbell rang insistently, startling her so she almost dropped the phone.
“Mr. Flanagan, what’s going on?” She was now more angry than confused. “The one thing I explicitly requested was no publicity over this.”
“I know, I know.” He sounded as harried as she felt. “It was my sister, see. She, uh, she just—”
“Just what?” Summer demanded.
“I didn’t realize she was dating a television news reporter. And she was so excited about Rory, and he knew our son was sick. So when he asked about him . . .”
Summer swallowed back the rising bile. Would they never leave her alone? She wanted to dive back into bed with the covers over her head and not come out until next week. “Let me guess. She didn’t realize what would happen if she told him.”
“I’m just so sorry about this. My wife is really distraught over it, and so is my sister. After what you did for Rory, the last thing she wants is to cause you any problems. Please tell me what I can do to make this right. You healed our son. It’s not right you should have to suffer for it.”
“I appreciate your concern.” She took a deep breath to tamp down her anger and find some measure of control. People just didn’t realize the consequences of their actions. And, of course, if television had it, the newspapers would be next. And it wouldn’t be just local. It never was. “Just . . . I’ll take care of things.”
“I-I’m taking my wife and Rory away until this dies down. If you’d like to come with us, we’d be happy to have you.”
Hide out with a frightened family? Not her cup of tea. She had her own fears to deal with.
“That’s very generous of you, but like I said, I’ll take care of things.” She spoke with a lot more confidence than she felt. “You just take care of your family.”
Her first reaction was to lock herself in her room as she’d done the first few times, shutting out the world and praying it would go away. But that didn’t get rid of them.
She thought of the people hounding her as wolves fighting over raw meat, each one more vicious than the next. They gave her no peace or privacy, making her a virtual prisoner in her home. The only good thing was that she now had a resource that helped a little.
Retreating to her bedroom, she replaced the receiver, but the phone began ringing again the moment she did, its tone a counterpoint to the continued harsh jangle of the doorbell. Her new cell phone with an unlisted number lay on her nightstand. Picking it up, she dialed a number she knew by heart. The first time she’d called the local precinct, the sergeant on duty, Frank Hurley, had been skeptical and somewhat disdainful, almost as if he felt someone “like her” deserved the notoriety. But eventually he had taken her seriously and stopped writing her off as some whack job. After so many incidents, they had even developed a weird sort of friendship.
Summer was weak with relief when she heard his voice. At least she wouldn’t have to explain the situation to someone new.
“Those idiots bothering you again, Summer?” he asked. His voice was sympathetic, but she could also hear anger in it on her behalf.
“Yes, they are. They’re all over my street as usual, annoying the neighbors, and they won’t stop ringing my doorbell.” She swallowed. “Sergeant, they’re on my lawn, and I think they’re even taking pictures of the house.”
“We’ll be there in ten,” he assured her. “Lights and sirens all the way. You just stay inside the house. And don’t answer the phone.”
“Believe me, I won’t,” she assured him and disconnected the call.
She figured her mother would be calling any minute now, followed by her father, and then Geoff, her brother. But they knew when the madness exploded to call her on her cell.
Whoever was ringing the doorbell was being persistent, and someone was also knocking loudly. Summer wanted to shut the bedroom door and put her hands over her ears. Instead, she forced herself to take some deep, calming breaths, then pulled out a T-shirt and jeans to put on. She had no intention of greeting the police in her pajamas.
She had just pulled her thick brown hair into a quick ponytail when her cell rang. She glanced at the readout. Her father. Of course. That meant he’d seen the early news, probably on the channel Mari’s boyfriend worked for. She let the call go to voice mail, planning to call back after the police arrived and the crowd of vultures was gone.
Her landline had been blessedly silent for a few minutes, but as soon as she stepped into the kitchen to make some coffee, it started to ring again. She lifted the receiver, disconnected the call, and then left the receiver lying on the counter. Her nerves couldn’t take any more noise.
Why, why, why? Why did they have to make such a big deal about what she did? Surely, with everything going on in the world today, there was enough to write about without focusing on her and making her life miserable. Yet somehow, since the first time an episode had been leaked, she’d been high on the media radar. She was glad that when she’d started her graphic design business, she’d decided to use a pseudonym. She could just imagine the reaction of her clients if and when they saw all this craziness in the newspapers and on television. Not to mention the lurid tabloids.
As Sergeant Hurley had promised, less than ten minutes had passed when she heard the wail of sirens coming closer and closer. When the sound was directly in front of her house, she headed for the living room and peeked out through the drapes. Sure enough, there were three cruisers, lights flashing, parked in the street, and uniformed cops began moving the crowd away. And none too politely, she was happy to see.
Eventually, when all the vehicles and the people were gone, she saw one of the uniformed men climb the steps to her porch and knock on her door.
“Miss Cahill? It’s Officer McLean. Sergeant Hurley asked me to speak to you personally. It’s safe for you to open the door to me.”
Double-checking to make sure everyone else was gone, she unlocked the door to let him in.
“Thanks for taking care of this,” she said, dredging up a smile. “I appreciate it.”
“The sergeant said for us to be sure and keep an eye out,” he assured her. “These reporters are nothing but bone pickers.”
What an apt description. Summer shivered. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Is there someplace you can go, away from here?” he asked. “Until this latest business dies down? They’re gone today, but they might very well come back. The sergeant isn’t so sure it will be safe for you here.”
Summer tamped down the sudden rise of anger. “Tell the sergeant I appreciate his concern and his help, but I won’t let them chase me out of my own house.”
McLean shrugged. “He said you’d say that. Okay, just keep your doors locked, and call us if these assholes show up again. We’ll be doing a drive-by every hour or so for a while.”
“Thank you again. Really.”
She locked the door after him, waited until all the patrol cars had left, then went to get her cell phone. Time to call her parents back.
Troy Arsenault lounged back in his chair at the breakfast table and sipped from his mug of hot coffee. He and another of the Phoenix Agency partners, Mark Halloran, had just completed a tense and complicated hostage negotiation and extraction, and he had accepted Mark’s invitation to spend a few days kicking back with him and his wife, Faith, in San Antonio. Faith, a bestselling romantic thriller novelist, was taking the morning away from her computer to fix a lavish breakfast for the two men.
“Want to catch the news?” she asked from the counter where she was whisking eggs. “Mark will be down in a minute, and he always likes to catch up.”
“Sure. That would be nice. We’ve kind of been out of touch with the world.”
Faith picked up the remote for the television sitting on the counter and turned it on to a news channel.
“. . . in San Antonio, Texas,” the reporter was saying. “Rumor has it Miss Cahill has performed such so-called miracles before, but we’re having some trouble substantiating the facts. She seems to be a very private person who gives out no information.” His smile was a touch sarcastic. “Makes it a little hard to get proof when you can’t interview the subject. This morning, reporters attempted to contact her at home . . .”
Behind her was a shot of a house on a residential street with news vans, cars, and people crowded around it.
Faith dropped her whisk into the bowl. “Oh my God. Mark,” she called. “Come here! Hurry.”
“What is it? What’s the matter?” He was still pulling on his T-shirt as he entered the kitchen. “Troy giving you a hard time?”
“This is serious. Look.” She pointed at the television. “It’s about Summer.”
“Again?” His face sobered instantly. “Those damn bloodsuckers just don’t want to leave her alone, do they?”
“This is the worst it’s been yet. I’m going to call her and see if there’s anything we can do.” Faith picked up her cell phone from the counter and walked into another room for privacy.
“Friend of yours?” Troy asked, puzzled by the whole thing.
Mark filled a mug from the coffeepot and sat down in the chair opposite Troy. “Summer Cahill and Faith have been friends for years. In fact, they both belong to the Lotus Circle. Faith’s actually been trying to talk her into joining Phoenix’s Psi Department. As you well know, our wives have been a big help in some of our cases since we brought them in.”
“We’d like to have more time to get the department fully up and running,” Faith told him. “Maybe in another few months. Meantime, we have a source we can tap if and when we need it.”
“Is she a telepath also?”
“No. She’s a psychic healer.” Mark cocked an eyebrow at Troy. “Ever have contact with any of them? I mean, as a medic.”
“Not really. I was only a medic with the SEALs, and we didn’t run into much of anything off the straight and narrow. But I have heard of psychic healing. It takes many forms. Touch, thought, herbs, even crystals. Do you know which kind of healing Summer practices?”
“Touch healing,” Faith answered, walking back into the room. “And it really takes a lot out of her.”
“So I’ve heard,” Troy agreed.
“The media was all over her this morning. I begged her to come and stay with us, but she said they aren’t chasing her out of her home. And apparently her friend Sergeant Hurley cleared the area this morning and has a car driving by every hour. She thinks that will calm things down.”
“I’m not so sure. Like you said, these people seem more intense than usual.” Mark frowned. “Maybe you should try again. I don’t like the idea of her being there all by herself.”
“Neither do I.”
Troy’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s she like?”
“She’s very nice,” Faith said quickly. “Bright, funny. Very giving. She never takes money for any of the healings she performs.”
“Yeah? How does she make a living?”
“She has a great web design business, Mr. Skeptic. She builds them and maintains them, and has a very hefty client list, thank you very much.”
“Oops.” Troy tried to soften things with a smile. “I didn’t mean to say anything negative about her, Faith. I’m just curious.” He took a swallow of coffee and set the mug back on the table. “I haven’t worked with any healers, but I’ve actually met a couple. They interested me enough to read up about it. I found the subject very intriguing.”
“We’ll have to make sure you get to meet Summer while you’re here,” Faith told him. “If we can just get her through this latest situation.” Her mouth quirked up in a slow smile. “Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just thinking, Summer probably needs someone to check out her house, make sure everything’s secure. Maybe install some extra locks. Check her phone system.” She looked at Troy. “Isn’t that one of your areas of expertise?”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “I smell your brain burning. What are you cooking up now?”
“Well, Troy’s between assignments, and he’s got downtime after the one you both just finished. I thought maybe he’d like to keep himself from getting rusty.”
Mark grinned. “Maybe we should ask Troy what he thinks about checking out the house of a gorgeous, single, unattached woman.”
“Wait a minute.” Troy looked from one to the other. “First of all, if she’s so desirable, how come she’s still single? And what makes you think she’d even let me into her house if she’s so jittery?”
Faith’s grin disappeared. “She’s still single because she’s learned not to trust people. Even when she’s tried to be so careful about the men she dates, most of them still see her as some kind of freak. And she’ll feel okay with you because we’ll tell her you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure ‘safe’ is the word a man likes to have used to describe him,” Troy said, a wry note in his voice, “but in this case it’ll probably work best.” He finished his coffee and stood up to get a refill. “So exactly what am I supposed to do when I get there?”
“Exactly what I just said,” Faith told him. “Check the security of her house. Maybe see about doing something with her phone system. She’s had stalker calls before, and it would make sense to try to trace them if she gets them again.” Faith gave a delicate shrug. “Spend a little time with her. Reassure her. Maybe even try again to talk her into coming here to stay with us for a few days.”
Troy had to admit privately his curiosity was running at a high level. The more things Faith said about the woman, the more intrigued he became. And all efforts at so-called matchmaking aside, it would be an unexpected opportunity to learn more about psychic healing, a subject that had fascinated him since he’d first learned about it.
“All right. Call her. If she’s adamant about not having me come over, drop it. We’ll figure out something else. If she’s okay with it, find out what time would be convenient for her, and I’ll do it.”
Faith gave him an impulsive hug. “Thank you. She’s a good friend, and I really am worried about her. I’ll call her right now.”
He called himself “the Cleaner,” because he saw his mission as one of cleansing. This woman had brought her black magic into the sphere of his life and tainted it. Oh, everyone said what a miraculous thing she’d done. How wonderful it was. How truly gifted she was.
But he saw her skills as fashioned by the devil, creating an aura of false hope. Any day now he expected everything in his circle to disintegrate, and then hope would be lost forever. There would be no relief this time.
The headaches had begun that time he witnessed her doing her mumbo jumbo. Casting spells. They could call it healing or anything they wanted to, but only he, the Cleaner, knew the real truth. He had wanted to destroy her at the time, but the others protected her and kept her shielded from outside forces. Since then he had tracked her activities.
She seldom traveled to perform her black magic. And when she did, she had a woman with her who clung to her like a barnacle. It would have been necessary to take both of them out, and that would have been both dangerous and needless. He wasn’t a killer by nature, nor did he see his plan as one of murder. He just wanted to cleanse the world of the she-devil.
Ridding society of her was taking careful planning on his part. It wasn’t just the idea of killing her. He wanted her to know who he was and why he was doing this. He wanted to look her in the eye and make her understand his mission was to eradicate her.
In the beginning, he had been satisfied with just the letters, imagining her reaction when she opened them. Hoping she would realize he was serious and stop what she was doing. When that didn’t work, he began making the phone calls. Oh, she’d tried changing her number, but enough money always bought the right information. He wanted to hear her fear on the other end of the connection. He wanted her to tremble at the sound of his voice and the impact of his messages and cease her vile practices.
But she hadn’t stopped her satanic practices, so each time he heard of another person she’d attended to, he’d escalated the calls. Now, after three years, that was no longer enough. Not nearly. He’d come to the city where she lived to put his final plan together carefully. Even the media saw her for what she was. This latest turnout was larger and more demanding, as if they, too, knew she was evil.
Although he frequently scoped out her house, he was careful to dress differently each time and to do it when his appearance would be least likely to attract attention.
He’d thought it an omen when he’d found this little apartment in San Antonio. He wasn’t used to such cheap lodging, since money was not an issue in his life. But this place suited his purpose perfectly, especially as all utilities except telephone were included, avoiding the necessity of having that kind of paper trail. Of course, he wasn’t using his own name. He had sources that provided him with false identification.
The apartment even came with basic cable, which astounded him, considering the low rent. Not that it mattered, since he seldom watched television. And he didn’t bother to activate the phone, as he only used burner phones that were untraceable.
So while he watched and waited for the perfect moment, while he tormented her daily, he could be completely anonymous.