Touching Evil (30 page)

Maggie had never been a nervous woman, but by the time John dropped her off at her home very early in the morning, it took all her resolution not to ask him to come inside with her. She told herself it was lack of sleep, but that didn't help much except to remind her he needed rest as well—and did not need to be worrying about her safety.

Worrying never did any good, she knew that.

Besides, if he knew the truth, he'd want to be with her every moment, watching over her—she knew that too. And as comforting as his presence was, she had to be able to spend at least some time alone and without the distraction he presented, recharging her energies while she tried to think this thing through.

At least that was what she told herself when she
went into her silent house and cautiously checked all the doors and windows before taking a long, hot shower and trying to get some sleep. But sleep didn't come easily. She dozed, waking several times with a start to find herself tense, listening for some alien sound. But there was nothing, of course.

Of course.

After only a few hours, she finally got up and got dressed, not much rested. She ate only because she knew she should, then checked her garage and car as warily as she had checked her house hours before. Even when she was in the car and moving, doors locked, she didn't relax.

She wondered if she ever would again.

When she walked into Beau's studio a few minutes later, she was a little surprised to find him lounged back with his feet up on the table rather than working. The commissioned portrait of a Seattle businessman's wife that he'd been working on for days reposed on his easel, but from all appearances he hadn't picked up brush or palette today.

"I'm taking the day off," he announced before she could ask him. "Have some coffee—it's a fresh pot."

Maggie fixed herself a cup and sat down across from him, studying his angelic face with a frown. "Not that it really shows, but I could swear you'd been up all night too."

"I didn't sleep," he admitted. "Called your house pretty late and figured you were at the station."

"I was. We had a sort of war council just before midnight and ended up staying there until dawn." Briskly, she filled him in on everything that had happened since they had last talked, as usual not sure just how much he knew without being told, and finished
up, "I went home a few hours ago for a nap and a shower, like most of the others."

"Most?"

"Andy's up for the duration, I think. And Quentin and Kendra seemed wide-eyed and energetic when I left."

Beau, who knew most of the detectives Maggie worked with at least by name, since she talked about them, nodded and said, "From what you've said about Andy, that isn't surprising. As for the two feds, unusual endurance is probably the rule rather than the exception for that unit."

Eyeing him thoughtfully, Maggie said, "You never really told me why you turned Bishop down when he asked you to join up a couple of years ago."

"Didn't I?"

"No. And don't try to sidestep now. Quentin and Kendra haven't said anything, but I'm willing to bet they've known about the connection between you and me for days. You said yourself Bishop more or less told you that the plan was for him and his agents to keep track of the psychics they're aware of outside the unit, just in case of need."

"That's what he said."

"So they've probably known about you since they got here." She shook her head. "I'll give them full marks for discretion; far as I can tell, they haven't said a word to anybody, even John."

"Knowing Bishop, he'd see discretion as necessary. One of his goals was always to build the unit and earn a solid success record long before the public found out anything."

Maggie nodded. "Makes sense. So—why did you decide not to join up?"

"I don't have a law degree."

"Which wouldn't be necessary, if you went on the books as technical support for the field agents. That was another of Bishop's goals, wasn't it, to build a support team made up of people with psychic abilities
and
other talents that could prove useful in investigations? I'd say an artist might come in handy, especially one with a name so well known it would provide excellent cover for any federal snooping he was doing."

"You've been around cops too much. You're beginning to think like them."

"Don't try to distract me. Why'd you say no? It's certainly the kind of thing you'd enjoy doing."

Beau shrugged. "Let's just say the timing wasn't right."

Maggie frowned at him. "It wasn't because of me, was it?"

Honest as always—at least when pressed—Beau said, "Not entirely. Anyway, you're the one Bishop would have loved to have on his team. An empathic sketch artist already accustomed to working with the police? Perfect. But I knew you had a pretty big job to finish here, and because I knew, so did he."

"He must be a powerful telepath."

"Oh, he is. Even more so these days, I hear, since he teamed up with and married another equally powerful psychic."

"And how did you hear? The psychic newsletter? Because I don't get that."

Beau grinned at her disgruntled tone. "I keep trying to tell you there are lots of connections in life."

"Yeah, right. That degrees-of-separation stuff?"

"Sure. So I know you—and by extension everybody you know as well. It adds up."

Maggie was never entirely certain if these interesting
theories of Beau's were theories—or universal facts he understood simply because he was unusually plugged into the universe.

"Urn . . . okay."

He grinned again. "Never mind. So what's the plan for the day?"

"I'm going to interview Ellen Randall again in about an hour. I want to check on Hollis, make sure she's all right. Then back to the station and meet up with the others, see what if anything they've managed to find out about a possible connection in Tara Jameson's life to the man who abducted her."

"You shouldn't be out alone."

"I work best alone, you know that."

"Not this time, Maggie. This time, working alone is dangerous for you."

"I'm being careful."

"Are you?"

She conjured a smile and hoped it was reassuring. "Of course I am. Besides, you know only too well that hiding won't do me any good. I have to do what I can to stop this animal. I have to."

"Yes. But not alone. You have to use all the tools you've been given this time."

"Some of them are no help at all." Broodingly, she looked down at her closed sketch pad. "The irony is that this is the monster I'm supposed to stop, the reason I'm here—at least this time around— and even though I've been given an ability that's helped me stop others, it isn't helping me the least bit with him. I can't see him. I'm as blind as his victims are."

"And there must be a reason for that."

"The universe wants to piss me off?"

He smiled. "Maybe. I've always suspected there's a real cosmic sense of humor out there."

"If so, it's a twisted humor, Beau. This is not funny."

"I know. But there's something you have to keep in mind, Maggie. As much as you're focused on stopping this man, the universe is a huge and complicated place. The patterns all around us are made up of uncounted threads, woven in complex designs, and every thread is important to the whole. It isn't just about him. It isn't just about his victims, or the cops."

"Or me."

He nodded. "Or you."

She drew a breath, then said dryly, "Thanks, Master."

"You're welcome, Grasshopper."

Maggie had to smile. "Well, while I keep the immensity of the universe firmly in mind, I have to go on working in my little corner of it. Any advice—this time?"

"Brush after every meal."

"You know, you're not nearly as funny as you think you are."

"No? Ah, well. One tries."

"One fails."

"You're just grumpy because you don't get the psychic newsletter." His smile faded slightly. "Maggie? I was right about John Garrett, wasn't I?"

She got up and for a moment just looked at him. Then her mouth twisted, and she said, "Yeah. You were right."

"Fate."

"Fate. See you later, Beau."

For a long time after she left, Beau sat there staring
into space. Then, so reluctant that every movement was slow and careful, he got up and went to the big painting leaning against the wall, covered with a piece of heavy material so that Maggie hadn't even noticed it.

Beau propped the still-covered painting on a secondary easel and stepped away for a moment, trying to prepare himself. Then he drew a deep breath and flipped back the material.

A detached part of his mind noted the technique and skill displayed, seeing and accepting the unsettling fact that this was arguably the best work of his life. But that wasn't all he saw. He saw the vague yet identifiable faces and forms of what he recognized as tormented women trapped in a dark hell of suffering, their arms reaching out desperately for help, most of them with empty eye sockets wide, open mouths pleading.

He saw the hands that had destroyed the women, hands clenched into fists, hands wielding knives and holding ropes, and hands reaching out for the women, as though to pull them back down into hell.

For a long, long time, Beau didn't move. He stared at the painting, absorbing every brush stroke, every nuance. Ignoring the nausea churning in his gut, he stared until he was certain every dreadful detail was burned into his mind.

Then he went and got a tool designed to cut canvas and very methodically shredded the best work he'd ever done.

"Not this time," he muttered into the silence of the studio. "Goddammit, not this time."

"I always end up working in boring police conference rooms," Quentin said somewhat sadly to the room at large. "And with a great hotel this time too."

"It'll keep you humble," Kendra told him.

"Yeah, right."

John came in then and immediately asked, "Anybody heard from Maggie?"

"Not since you have," Quentin told him. "She was going to interview Ellen Randall and then stop off at the hospital to see Hollis Templeton, right?"

"So she said."

"Hasn't had time to do both, I'd say. And where have you been?"

"Letting Drummond vent some of his spleen."

Quentin grimaced. "Yeah, I thought when he was so painfully polite to us this morning that he was itching to explode."

John shrugged. "I thought it'd be better for all of us if he got it out of his system."

"We appreciate that," Jennifer said dryly.

"I won't say it was a pleasure—but you're welcome." Obviously restless, John looked at his watch, then sat down at the conference table. "Andy's still trying to hurry the medical examiner, but it'll probably be late this afternoon before we have the results of the postmortem on Samantha Mitchell."

"I'm not surprised," Quentin said absently, prowling back and forth in front of the bulletin boards. "According to the police scanner we were listening to yesterday, there were a couple of really bad fires in the city, with fatalities. The M.E.'s probably got more than he can handle."

"Still," John said.

"Still," Quentin agreed. He prowled a while longer,
but when Kendra gave him a very direct look, he finally sat down across from John. Half under his breath, he said, "For somebody with a uniquely flexible mind, she gets very irritated by the smallest things."

"Even I was getting irritated," John told him dryly.

Jennifer added, "Me too, but I wasn't going to mention it."

"Then why did you?" Quentin demanded.

"Everybody else did."

Quentin sighed. "All right, all right. Can I help it if I'm restless? I hate this part of the job. Basically just sitting around going through papers and scratching our heads while we wait for the bastard to make another move." He watched John look at his watch again and added, "And I'm not the only one who hates it."

Ignoring that, John said, "Scott's out talking to Tara Jameson's coworkers, right?"

Quentin nodded. "Kendra's been running background checks on every name we've got, but so far everyone in her life looks clean. The fiance definitely is, with a strong alibi to boot. No family here in the city. Andy has a couple of detectives canvassing the building again, and I just spent the past two hours going over the security videotapes."

"And found nothing, I gather?"

"Nada. I have a hunch the tapes don't show anything because he monkeyed with the cameras, but I'm no expert."

"Then we need to send them to someone who is."

"That's my thinking."

Jennifer said, "The security company will raise hell, most likely. They swear their cameras have not been altered in any way, that it would have been impossible
for any unauthorized person to do that. Of course, they also can't explain how Tara Jameson vanished from her supposedly secure building. The egg on their faces isn't pretty."