Hunter's Need (18 page)

Irritated, distracted and a little worried, she nibbled on her lower lip and wondered what had happened. Building shields was a mental exercise. As simplistic as it might seem, shields were established with a slow, annoyingly necessary mental trick—the visualized building of a mental wall. Building that wall was something that could take a psychic weeks to finish. Sometimes months.

Ana’s wall was “made” of creek stone, and it was an image she could bring to mind effortlessly, easily. As the bus rumbled along its route toward downtown Anchorage, she did a mental examination of her wall, searching for chinks, missing stones and weak spots.

What she found was a place where the wall bowed in, just the slightest curve. Like somebody had leaned in and pushed. It needed to be fixed—now that she had “seen” it, she could feel the weakness, could feel where whispers of thought managed to filter through minute cracks she couldn’t even sense.

But she couldn’t take the time away right now to do it— zoning out in public for extended periods of time wasn’t what she’d call a wise move. So instead of rebuilding that part of her shield, she did a quick fix. Envisioning a big boulder, right at the spot where her shield bowed in. Crude and it wouldn’t work in the long run, but it would get her through the day.

And it only took a few minutes, as opposed to the days, weeks or months that building elaborate shields could take. It wasn’t particularly strenuous or tiring, either. Still, when she climbed off the bus at her stop on West Fifth Avenue, she was hot, sweaty and out of breath.

She riffled through her bag until she found a clip and then she twisted her hair up off her neck. The kiss of cool air felt good and she let herself enjoy it for a minute, let her breathing level out and her pulse calm.

The break didn’t last long, though. She had to get to work. Automatically, she looked around for Paul. The area by the mall seemed to be a favorite.

He wasn’t there. With a mental shrug, she headed toward work. She was going to have to work through lunch, try to get done early. Her boss was laid-back, especially since they were right in between the major tax days of the year. If she finished up, she’d ask to leave early. Hopefully, she could do just that. She needed some peace and quiet to fix the weakness in her shields.

With Duke here, she couldn’t risk having anything off. Even though she knew nothing had happened with her blocking, if those shields slipped and too much outside stimuli bombarded her, it would be too easy, too natural, to slip back into old habits.

That wasn’t anything she wanted to risk. She didn’t want to affect his judgments or instincts in any way.

Ana worked straight through the morning, although keeping her mind focused on work was another exercise in frustration. Her head just wasn’t into working today, or much of anything else that required focus, probably. She finally fell into a rhythm, though, waving off Darlene’s invitation to lunch, returning phone calls, copying and mailing out paperwork, dealing with email, the thousand and one small details that fell under her job description. It looked like she just might finish in time to cut out a good two hours early.

“Ana!”

She looked up and found Darlene standing in front of her desk. The other woman’s eyes were stark in her face and even through her shields, she could feel the buzz of anxiety coming off of Darlene. “Hey . . . I thought you’d already left for lunch.”

Darlene rolled her eyes. “Ana, I swear, you’ve got tunnel vision when you’re working. I’ve been back for a couple of hours. It’s almost three.”

Three
? Ana glanced at her watched and winced. Damn. Two fifty-two. So much for getting home by three thirty. She sighed and leaned back, straightening up her desk automatically as she looked back at Darlene. “Everything okay?”

“No, it’s not. Man, you’re not going to believe what I just heard.” Darlene gestured impatiently and said, “Come on.”

Ana shook her head and focused on the mess of papers in front of her. Jumbled piles of receipts that she needed to straighten out, mileage logs that needed to be tallied. “Something’s come up and I’ve got to leave early.”

“It’s about Paul.”

Slowly, she lifted her gaze and looked at Darlene. “Paul . . . as in the homeless guy?”

Darlene snorted. “Yeah, as in the homeless guy that I see you slipping money to once or twice a week.
That
Paul.”

“What about him?”

She made an impatient face and curled her fingers again. “Come on . . . it’s been on the news for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Darlene.”

“Fine, fine.” She rolled her eyes and pushed midnight dark hair back from her face. “He’s dead, sweetie.”

“Dead . . . ” Ana felt the breath inside her lungs freeze, lock tight. “Dead?”

Darlene nodded, her face troubled. “I saw something on the news this morning about how the police were investigating a possible double murder and they just confirmed it was him. It looks like he killed a girl . . . I saw her picture. She looked a lot like that girlfriend people said he killed back in the seventies. A
lot
like her.”

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong
.

Ana took a deep breath and eased back from the chair, took a few seconds to make sure nothing she felt on the inside was reflected in her face, the way she walked, the way she spoke. In silence, she followed Darlene back to the break room.

The TV was on, a bright red banner along the bottom declaring,
Breaking News
. . .
Local man believed to have murdered girl, then self.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong
.

That wasn’t right. Ana didn’t know exactly why she was so certain, but she knew, as well as she knew her own name, she knew they were wrong. Paul wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t hurt anybody.

But somebody had hurt him.

Her gut went watery and she had to lock her knees just to stay upright. Next to her, Darlene stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes locked on the TV screen. “Oh, man, girl . . . I told you that you shouldn’t be talking to him. Crazy. Man was crazy. I knew he was, but he seemed so harmless.”

Ana bit back her instinctive reply and just remained silent, watching as the cameraman zoomed in on a small, ramshackle-looking house. Something about the sight of it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“I haven’t seen the house before, but I know the area. It’s out a little past Potter’s Marsh, just off the old Seward Highway. The bodies were found a few hours after midnight. Somebody made an anonymous call.” Darlene swiped the back of her hand over her mouth and continued to stare, mesmerized, at the TV.

Potter’s Marsh
. Absently, she reached up and rubbed the tight muscles at the base of her neck. Inside, she flinched as Marie’s face flashed across the picture.

“Back in 1973, Beasley was arrested on suspicion of killing his girlfriend, Marie Onalik. There was a lack of evidence to hold him, however, and he was released,”
the reporter stated.

Now the screen was spliced in two and on the other side, another female’s face.
“While authorities haven’t confirmed it, our sources report that the family of missing teen, Candice Randall, has been contacted. Our sources also confi rm the family was seen entering the police department. Randall, an eighteen-year-old freshman who attends the University of Alaska, was reported missing by her roommate early Friday morning.”

Blood roared in Ana’s ears and she reached out, grabbed the back of a nearby chair as her head started to spin. The resemblance between Candice and Marie was unmistakable.

“What are they doing plastering her face on the TV if they don’t even know it’s her?” Darlene demanded. “God, can you imagine how sick her parents must be?”

Ana was only half aware of Darlene, though. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the two images on the screen.
Candice Randall
—two days missing. Two days.

You are so completely useless
. Ana stared dry-eyed at the TV, at the young woman’s face.

Candice.

Ana knew her face. She’d dreamed about that girl only days ago.
Two
days ago.

A hand touched her arm and Ana, without thinking, grabbed it and squeezed, pressing down on the sensitive area between the thumb and forefinger. Darlene yelped and jerked. The sound of her friend’s voice had Ana relaxing her hold and she blushed bright red, watching as Darlene cradled her hand to her chest.

“Geez, Ana. Jumpy much?”

Wincing, she said, “I’m sorry, Darlene.” Rubbing her sweaty palms together, she took a few steps back. Distance. Shit. Needed some distance. “Yeah, I guess I’m pretty jumpy right now.”

“No shit.” Darlene wiggled her fingers. Then, with a slow, reluctant smile, she met Ana’s gaze. “You need to show me how you did that. That was kind of cool.”

Ana shrugged. “They’ve got tae kwon do at the Y. I think they offer it at the Alaska Club, too. That’s all it is. I took it in . . . college.” Not exactly a lie. She
had
taken college courses back at Excelsior.

Licking her lips, she glanced at the TV once more. She needed to get out of here. As in
now
. She’d thought her focus was off a few minutes ago, but this was so much worse. “I think I’m going to check with Gary, see if he’ll let me head on home. I’m pretty much done and I can come in a little early tomorrow and finish up.”

“Probably not a bad idea. You’re looking a little green around the gills.” Darlene reached up and rubbed Ana’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you know. You’re not hurt. But you know you need to be more careful. All that kung fu martial arts stuff doesn’t do much against a gun or a knife.”

Hurt? Kung fu?
Ana squinted at Darlene, unsure what she was getting at. When it finally dawned on her, she gave her friend a wan smile. If Darlene wanted to think that Ana was all shook up because she was imagining herself in the place of the slain girl pictured on TV, let her. Ana didn’t have the presence of mind just then to convince her friend otherwise, and nor the time. She needed to get out.

Get away.

 

 

F
ROM halfway up the steps, he caught the faint sound of a heartbeat. Duke could smell the lingering scent of her skin as he reached the landing. It was early—he hadn’t expected to find her home. Had thought he’d have an hour or two, at least, to cool down, get his head straight.

Figure out another fucking explanation besides the one that had his gut all in a tangle. She wouldn’t be doing it— not with him here. She knew it was too fucking dangerous. Besides, he’d feel it, right? Or he should at least feel enough to realize something was off—

You didn’t then.
Back then, the only thing he could remember feeling was how much he wanted to feel Ana. Naked, open, begging for him.

Damn it, he’d needed a few hours to think things through. “You’re not going to get it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Without another thought toward cooling down or thinking things through, he opened the door and just barely managed to keep from slamming it behind him. He closed it quietly and stood there, scanning the living room and kitchen area. Empty.

Frustrated, he prowled through the small apartment, ears pricked as he listened.

It was damn quiet, but she was here. He heard her heart beat—

—coming from behind a closet door?

For one moment, ugly fear surfaced. Crossing the living room, he jerked open the door. Heart slamming in his throat, he looked inside. Ana . . . and she was fine.

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he took a second, forcing a breath past the knot in his throat. Then he crouched down in front of her. Her eyes were fixed, blank, staring straight ahead.

Meditating? Biting back a curse, he settled in the hall on the floor, bracing his back against the wall and watching her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Barely even seemed to breathe. If Duke hadn’t been around psychics back at the school, he’d be getting seriously freaked. As it was, he just barely had enough control to sit there quietly instead of trying to nudge her out of the trance state.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. She was sweating now, and her heart beat faster, and her breathing became more and more labored. At forty-five minutes, the sweat beading on her brow started to roll down her face, into her eyes, rolling off her nose and chin to drip onto her shirt or the floor beneath her. Duke waited, his hands opening and closing into fists, his skin tight and itchy.

He almost left.

That was what he should do.

He needed to get out into the streets and prowl around—

No. No, he didn’t, because there was nothing to find. There was no killer to find, because he’d taken his own life. No job for him to do. Nothing to keep him here—not a damn
fucking
thing he could do. But he could have.

Could have, and that was the bitch.

He could have done something to help that girl, help her before some bastard suffered a psychotic episode and targeted the girl. He should have done something, should have known—

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t see the gradual change take place on Ana’s face. Didn’t see her eyes lighten from near black to violet, didn’t see the return of color to her cheeks, or the way her body sagged as she came drifting back to awareness.

It wasn’t until he heard her take a deep, harsh breath that he realized she was coming out of it. He drew up a knee, braced his elbow on it and stared at her.

She reached up and passed a hand over her damp hair. Grimacing, she reached for the towel at her side. As she mopped the sweat from her brow and neck, she frowned at him. “Hi. How long have you been there?”

“Close to an hour. How long have you been in there?” he asked, gesturing toward the closet. “And why the closet?”

“It’s quieter. Darker.” She shrugged. “I focus better when I’ve got nothing around to distract me.”