Touched by Darkness (41 page)

"He's dead! Oh God, he's dead! My baby's dead!"

Kara knew that voice. She shoved through the

onlookers and saw Sara Thornton crumpled on the

ground. Officer Allen Spears was on one side and

Nancy Miller on the other. Nancy had her arms

around Sara, but Sara shoved her away and

screamed, "My Michael is dead!"

Michael Thornton?
Mikey was dead?
Kara's legs

went weak. She stumbled back, felt Damien's hands

close over her upper arms. "Steady now," he

murmured.

"Ma'am, I know you're upset, but if you could just

come sit in the cruiser." Officer Spears tried to take

Sara's thin arm, but she wrenched away.

"He was fine last night, before I left." Tears

streaked down her ravaged face. "He was fine, I tell

you! Luz Perez stayed here with them last night.

She killed my boy!"

Another shock wave for Kara to absorb, and she

felt the cold sliding through her. Tightening his

hold, Damien started pulling her back from the

crowd.

"Ma'am," Spears, a young man fresh out of the

police academy, pleaded, "if you could please calm

down and wait, we'll take your statement after

Chief Greer finishes inside—"

But Sara was like a wild woman, and she spun

away from the officer's outstretched hand. "My

baby's inside! I should be with him. I have to go to

him." She scrambled toward the house, but Spears,

his face turning red, grabbed her arm again.

Another officer came to his assistance, and with

one on each side of her, they towed her toward one

of the squad cars.

"She killed him!" Sara wailed. "Luz killed my

baby! He was fine when I left him last night! When

I went in to wake him this morning, he didn't... he

—" She collapsed, sobbing brokenly as the men

placed her in the front seat of the car.

Kara stood there, too shocked to fully process the

situation. Damien leaned down and said in a low

voice, "I'm going around the house to see if I can

pick up anything before the police get more

organized."

"Wait!" She spun around. "I'm going with you."

She followed him to the far side of the house. Most

of the people were clustered on the south side and

in the front, and the area hadn't been cordoned off

yet, nor had the ambulance arrived. Distant sirens

indicated more emergency vehicles would be

arriving soon.

They went around the corner and Damien said,

"Wait here. I've only got a few minutes to work."

Michael Thornton was dead.
She was still trying to

take it in, even as sharp-edged grief slashed

through her. "Let me help. If you can use my

energy, you might pick up more. I'm not letting this

thing get away. He was just a little boy." Her voice

caught, but she forced it under control.

Damien's steel gaze bored into her eyes. "All right."

He took her hand, tugged her further along the side

of the house. Touching his necklace through his

shirt, he inhaled deeply.

She mentally reached for him, and opened herself

to the despised abilities lurking deep within her. A

scene unfolded in her mind.

A distorted image of a person stepped into what

was obviously a child's bedroom. The moonlight

drifting through the window illuminated soccer and

baseball posters on the walls and a soccer ball on

a dresser. But the figure moving toward the bed

was murky, blurred by powerful supernatural

abilities.

Michael was sleeping peacefully on his back, sweet

and innocent. A pillow covered his face, was

yanked down so hard, Kara felt her body jerk.

"Stay with me," Damien ordered. "Don't break the

link."

She dug deep, sheer determination keeping her in

the vision.

Two feminine hands gripped the ends of the pillow,

pushing down. The only color in the nightmare

scene was the glaring white pillow case and the

blood red fingernails on the killing hands. Michael,

obviously a deep sleeper like most children, didn't

move, didn't know he was being suffocated. With a

sigh, the life left his small body. Then the killer

looked right at Kara, as if posing for a picture. The

face was shadowed, but white teeth flashed in a

taunting smile. The face began to come into focus

—

"What are you doing there?"

Kara jolted back to reality, met the glare of a man

in a county sheriff uniform. "I don't know what the

hell you're doing," he growled. "But I can arrest

you for tampering with a crime scene."

"I'm sorry," she said lamely, still stunned from the

vision. "I heard the news and I—I"

"She's a friend of the family," Damien interjected.

"She was so upset when she heard about the boy

that I brought her around here to give her some

privacy. I'm sorry, officer. I didn't realize that

would be a problem."

The sheriff studied Kara. She must have looked like

death warmed over, because he nodded. "Get back

around the house, and go on home. There's nothing

you folks can do for the boy now."

The truth of his words struck like a hammer on an

anvil. Little Michael Thornton was dead, brutally

murdered by a monster. She was barely aware of

Damien leading her around the carnage of people

and vehicles and back to the car. She gave a brief

nod when he asked her if she was all right—a

colossal lie—and tried not to think or feel during

the silent drive home.

He pulled the car into the driveway, his face rigid.

"Damn! I needed just one more minute!" He acted

like he wanted to hit something, thought better of

it, rested his clenched fist on the steering wheel.

"I'll have to go back later."

Kara had been barely holding it together; now she

began crumbling inside. She wrenched open the

door and ran for the house, digging her keys from

her purse. She reached her bedroom, slammed and

locked the door, and collapsed on the bed.

Pain rolled through her in great waves. She curled

into a miserable ball and sobbed. So much death, so

much suffering. A lively old lady killed as casually

as one would swat a fly, and now the life of a child

taken. Memories of Richard's death took their place

in the gruesome queue, another layer of grief.

She didn't know how long she lay there; she only

knew that it seemed as if her life force drained out

of her with the tears. Now she was empty inside,

except for the pain. She felt a familiar touch of

energy, followed by soothing warmth.

"I locked that door for a reason," she muttered.

"You've grieved enough." Damien's voice washed

over her with another wave of warmth. "I can feel

your exhaustion. Rest now."

"You can't keep doing this," she protested, feeling

the pull toward nothingness. She rolled over and

glared up at him. "What about free will?"

"Mine is stronger than yours."

Arrogant male,
she thought, battling the pull. She

was going to have to... to... sleep...

She awoke with a start, completely disoriented. It

took her a moment to realize she was in her

bedroom, and that it was late afternoon, judging

from the dim light coming through the partially

open blinds. The quilt from the foot of the bed was

thrown over her.

It took another moment to remember that Michael

Thornton had been murdered. A fresh wave of pain

swept through her, and more tears threatened. She

sat up, blinking them back. She was through

crying. It was time to go after Mikey's murderer.

She went into her bathroom, splashed some cool

water on her face, but there was no help for her red,

puffy eyes. She rinsed her mouth, ran a brush

through her hair and changed into a pair of sweats.

Then she went to find Damien.

He was the only light in the darkness.

#

Damien sat in the large chair in the living room.

The blinds were closed, but the dim room was

bright in comparison to his dark mood. After he'd

sent Kara to sleep, knowing it was the best thing,

considering her fatigue and distraught state, he'd

spent an hour in meditation. He hoped that would

help firm up a psychic imprint from what he'd

gathered at today's BCS. But it wasn't enough,

damn it to Belial and back. He'd need more before

attempting a conduction.

He'd listened to the police scanner as he fixed and

ate two sandwiches, but hadn't garnered any helpful

information. He typed a report of the latest murder

and e-mailed it to Sanctioned headquarters, then sat

down to center himself and think through every

event of the past two weeks. There might be

something, even the tiniest clue, he had overlooked.

But nothing jumped out at him. He thought of

Michael Thornton—just a
child,
about the same age

as Alex—and a mixture of rage and pity roared

through him. He had to stop this thing
now.

A whisper of sound snagged his attention, and he

looked up to see Kara standing just inside the room.

Her hair fell loose and simple around her pale face.

She'd changed into a slate-blue sweat suit. With no

makeup on, and her slender figure, she looked

incredibly young. But he knew from first hand

experience she was all woman beneath that bulky

fabric.

Her gaze locked with his. She looked sad and...

alone. Just as alone as he felt. He should be used to

loneliness by now. He'd been isolated, either self-

imposed or by circumstances, for over thirty years.

But sometimes the emptiness closed in on him,

although he'd always had another hunt to keep him

going. And sometimes... sometimes he wished for

companionship, for a kindred spirit to ease the

barrenness of his existence.

Motivated by emotions he didn't dare examine too

closely, he held out his hand to Kara. Wordlessly,

she came to him, folding that lithe body into his

lap, tucking herself against him. He wrapped an

arm around her and rested his cheek against her

head. She smelled like lavender—from her

shampoo, he knew—and the classic Chanel

perfume she favored. She felt soft and warm and...

wonderful. A dangerous exercise in futility, he told

himself.

Yet the door had been opened when he'd let her get

too close, when he'd taken her—and allowed

himself to be taken—in non-conduction intimacy.

But he wasn't quite ready to close that door. Not

yet. It was hard to return to the loneliness.

He felt her shiver, realized the room was cold. With

a flick of his hand, he ignited the gas logs. Another

gesture and the afghan over the back of the couch

floated to them.

He tucked the cover around her. "Are you feeling

better?"

"I'm not as tired as I was." She placed her palm on

his chest. He wondered if she could feel his heart

speed up. "We're going to have to talk about your

overbearing and macho attitude, Sentinel. You do

not
decide when I go to sleep."

As long as there was danger, and innocents were

involved, he
would
have the final say in everything.

But he merely said, "Let's get through this, then

we'll discuss your sleeping habits."

She sniffed, but didn't argue. "What now?" she

asked. "Shouldn't we do a conduction?"

"Not yet. I need that last bit of the psychic

signature. We can't do much until the activity at the

Thorntons calms down and I can go back over

there."

"I was afraid that sheriff's interruption messed up

the reading." She was silent a minute. "If Michael

was mur—" She shuddered. "If it happened last

night, why didn't I dream it?"

Feeling the tension invading her body, Damien

splayed his hand over her back, rubbed in slow,

calming circles. "I don't know. But you're not going

to dream about everything the Belian does. Or you

might have dreamed about the boy, but your

subconscious buried it. Even if you had dreamed on

a conscious level, you couldn't have stopped it."

"I know." She shifted to look up at him. "Have you