The First Prophet (26 page)

Or maybe not.

When an enemy lurked all around, it was easy to become paranoid.

Uneasily, she said, “Has it occurred to you that an
accident staged on the highway would be a dandy way to get us?”

“Yes, it has.” Tucker’s voice was grim. “If they mean to kill us, that’d be the quickest
way to at least try.”

“If?”

“I have my doubts about that, Sarah.”

She returned her attention to his profile. “Why?”

“So far, virtually everything they’ve done—with the possible exception of burning
down your house, and we can’t be absolutely positive that was their doing—could have
been an attempt to get their hands on you rather than kill you. Even your own feelings
are confused on that point; you know they’re after you, but the major reason you think
they want you dead is because of your vision. Right?”

“Well, what about that? I saw my death.”

“You’ve seen a lot of things that could easily be symbolic. The bells, the open grave,
and the headstone. Even the murmur of many voices. All of them are or could be symbols
of death; the trappings of a funeral and burial.”

“So?”

“So…maybe that’s what you were really seeing, Sarah. The trappings. The
appearance
of death—of your death.”

“I still don’t—”

“Okay, suppose with me for a minute. Suppose that fire at your house was intended
to be a—pardon the pun—smoke screen. Suppose the plan was to get you out before police
and firemen arrived, to just take you. Officials
arrive, find your house burning, maybe even find a female body in the ruins and, presto,
Sarah Gallagher is dead—and nobody’s looking for her.”

“Then why didn’t it work out that way?”

“I don’t know. The fire spread too fast, maybe. The neighbors gathered too quickly.
The dream—vision—you had before the fire made you too wary to be caught. Whatever
the reason, they failed. But maybe what they failed at was taking you rather than
killing you.”

“That’s a pretty big leap,” she said slowly.

“Yeah, I know. But it bothers me that they haven’t tried to arrange a little car crash
for us—especially if they really did send those damned flowers. If they did, they
pretty much had to be following us all the way from Chicago; we know damned well they
were on us all the way
to
Chicago. That’s a lot of miles, and faking an accident wouldn’t have been hard. At
these speeds, just bumping another car can be a one-way ticket to the morgue. So why
haven’t they at least tried?”

“Unless they don’t want me dead,” she finished.

Tucker nodded. “Unless they don’t want you dead.”

Sarah thought about it, then shook her head. “But what about Margo? That little
accident
was meant to be deadly, and you said they were probably after me.”

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” he admitted. “But that’s just one instance
where it appears that death was clearly the intent—all the rest of the evidence is
going the other way.”

She tried to get her thoughts organized, something that was getting harder to do.
Whether it was her interrupted
sleep last night, the hasty flight from the hotel, or just stress and exhaustion over
the whole frightening business, Sarah was having a difficult time thinking clearly.

“Are you saying you think some of the psychics who were supposedly killed really weren’t?”

“When some of the newer information came in this morning, I noticed that in at least
a third of those cases, either no body was found or else what was found was…pretty
messed up. A lot of burn victims from house fires, car and plane crashes, things like
that. Drownings where the body had…been in the water a long time. Identification was
sketchy and often depended on the location of the bodies or the fact that nobody asked
questions. If a man or woman lives alone and a body is found in their house or car;
if that person is missing; if the body is the right sex, roughly the right size and
age, wearing the missing person’s clothing or jewelry—in a lot of cases, the assumption
is made. And even when identification was made through so-called positive means, as
in dental records or even DNA…well, records can be switched. I’d say that would probably
be child’s play for people with police officers in their pockets.”

“You mean…innocent people might have been killed just to provide bodies?” That belated
realization hit her hard.

“If the stakes are high enough, why not?”

“My God.”

Tucker looked at her quickly. “I’m sorry.”

She wondered vaguely what he’d heard in her voice,
but all she said was, “Do you think that if we checked the Richmond newspapers for
the days after the fire, we might read that the body of a woman was found dumped somewhere?
A woman about thirty, five four, a hundred and five pounds, maybe with dark, reddish
hair? A woman who might have been mistaken for me in the right circumstances?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can we check?”

He sent her another quick glance. “Sarah, it isn’t your fault. If some other woman
died…blame them, not yourself.”

“I’d like to know,” she said steadily. “I need to know.”

“Why? What good would it do?”

Sarah couldn’t tell him that. She only knew that it was a question she had to have
answered. But all she said was, “It would be another piece of information, wouldn’t
it? Another bit of evidence that—that we’re guessing right. You said yourself we need
to know all we can.”

“I don’t think that’s your reason.”

“It’s reason enough.” She waited through several moments of silence, then prompted,
“Tucker?”

“All right. When we get to Syracuse, I’ll see what I can find out. Just remember that
Richmond is a big city. People die there. None of those deaths has to be connected
to you.”

She didn’t respond to that, but said instead, “If the other side really is taking
some of the psychics reported dead as well as those reported missing, what are they
doing with them? What do they want with me?”

“If the object was to kill you, then you might pose a threat to them. If getting their
hands on you and other psychics is the object, then obviously you have some kind of
value to them. They want or need to use you somehow.”

“How? To buy lottery tickets? To predict how the stock market’s going to go in the
months and years ahead?”

“Maybe. But among the supposedly dead and definitely missing psychics I’ve listed
so far are those who can’t predict the future any more than I can. Psychics whose
gifts are along other lines. People with telepathy, telekinesis, the ability to supposedly
channel the dead or sense spirits or start fires, or take pictures with the mind.
It really runs the gamut.”

“Then I can’t see how there could be a single answer to this.” Sarah rubbed her forehead
fretfully. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

He was watching her more closely than she had realized. “Is the pressure building
again?”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “No, not really. I’m just…having a little
trouble thinking clearly.”
And, of course, I’m scared half out of my mind.

Tucker frowned, but said, “They must think they can gain something. I can think of
a dozen scams where a medium or fire starter would come in handy.”

She was surprised. “Scams?”

“Sure. A good medium can do a pretty brisk business, and arson can be immensely profitable.”

“Yes, but…A fake medium could probably do okay,
especially given the apparent resources of the other side. And as for fire starters,
all it takes to start a fire is a match.”

“A match can also leave evidence of arson. Even so, to be honest, this doesn’t feel
like a for-profit thing to me. It’s just too damned big, too complicated. And too
costly. The payoff has to be big, maybe bigger than we can imagine. I just don’t see
that coming from sideshow mediums or burning buildings.”

“So we still don’t know what’s going on.”

He glanced at her. “We know what. Or part of what. We just don’t know why.”

“And all we can do is talk in circles.” Sarah resisted the urge to rub her forehead
again.
You must think you’re going to get a pretty good book out of all this, Tucker, to
stick with me this long.

“We’re putting the pieces together, Sarah. You have to admit, we know—or think we
know—a lot more than we did a week ago.”

“For all the good it does us.”

“You’re tired.” His voice gentled. “It’s hard for you to see that we are making progress.
But we are. And we’ll do even better once we make contact with another psychic.”

I can’t afford to be tired. You said it yourself.
But all she said aloud was, “Assuming we pick the right psychic, and not one who
belongs to the other side.”

“You’ll know if we’re right.”

“Will I?”

“I believe you will.”

“Suppose I don’t. Suppose I can’t tell an enemy from a friend. What then?” As hard
as she tried, she couldn’t steady her shaking voice.

“Then we’ll think of something else.” His voice was calm, but there was an underlying
note of tension.

“And keep running.”

“We can run as long as it takes.”

Sarah rubbed her cold hands together. They always seemed to be cold now. Nerves, she
supposed. “How long are you prepared to put your life on hold, Tucker?”

“I told you. As long as it takes.”

Only until October. One way or another, we’ll stop running then.

But all she said was, “Whether they want me dead or not, we know they can kill; if
you get in their way…”

“I intend to get in their way. And I’m betting you’re stronger than they suspect you
are. I’m betting on you.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on me?”

Without looking at her, Tucker replied flatly, “I already have, Sarah.”

There was really nothing she could say to that.

Beyond the window where he stood, Duran could see most of downtown Syracuse. He didn’t
think much of it. Not that he considered the matter with any undue interest. His attention
was directed toward a specific building barely a block away, another hotel. It was
almost nine o’clock on Tuesday night, and the hotel was flooded with light.

The footsteps behind him were inaudible, but he heard them. “Well? Have they checked
in?”

“Yes, sir. Same as before, a junior suite. The door opens into the parlor, where Mackenzie
will be.”

“Where we assume Mackenzie will be,” Duran corrected gently.

“Yes, sir.”

Duran turned away from the window. “What does Astrid say?”

“That Gallagher is blocking—probably unconsciously.”

“I wonder if she’s telling the truth,” Duran mused, not a question so much as thoughtful
speculation.

Varden did not venture a response, though a faint frown pulled at his brows.

Duran saw it. “You think she wouldn’t lie to us?”

“She was brought over ten years ago. If we can’t trust her…”

“Yes. If we can’t trust her.” Duran smiled, something ironic in the expression.

Varden waited a moment, then said, “It is Astrid’s opinion that Gallagher is on the
edge of understanding at least some of what she’s capable of.”

“I can see that for myself without benefit of a psychic’s abilities,” Duran said,
dry now.

“Yes, sir.” This time, Varden waited patiently in silence.

Duran looked absently back toward the window for a moment, his pale eyes distant.
When he returned his attention to his lieutenant, his voice became brisk. “Is Mason
ready for them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He understands what I want him to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Duran made a slight gesture of dismissal. “See that he follows his instructions
precisely.”

Varden nodded a reply and left the room.

Duran returned to the window. This time, his gaze roved, studying the lights of various
buildings as if searching for a particular one. Following the neatly laid-out streets,
scanning the dark patches of parks and woods. Softly, as if to someone he expected
to hear his voice, he said, “I feel you out there. Nearby. You think you can save
her. You think you can save them all. Sometimes…you even think you can save me.”

After a moment, he laughed very quietly, a sound that held little amusement.