Vacant (11 page)

The vision stuck in the back of my head, the smell of the moldy straw, the scream of terror. I hadn't known Tommy long, but the more I talked to him, the worse that fear sounded, the worse my own fear of the vision became.

Swartz said the only way to deal with fear was to face it head-on. I picked up the phone. It rang.

I left a message on Stone's voice mail, telling him where I was and that they could expect another payment in the next few weeks from me. Gave a number.

Then I hung up and stared at the phone again, and couldn't quite bring myself to call her. I shook my head and pulled out the file on Sibley, the guy who'd almost killed me a few months ago. He was every bit as dangerous as I remembered, with a penchant for killing for hire with an odd serrated cord he had special-made. When, of course, the client didn't want the death to look natural.

He was a cold killer, a sharp killer, someone who enjoyed the control of the death. I'd felt his leavings in Mindspace on several crime scenes, and I'd met him in person. He'd strangled me, cutting off my air just to play with me, just to play with his prey. If things had been different, I would be dead now, by his hand, seeing that intensely controlled face as my
last sight. Even now, when I thought about him coming after me, I felt a chill go down my spine. I was afraid of him, legitimately afraid of him, and getting involved with this case and putting myself in the line of danger was idiotic.

But on the other side of that wall was a kid, a perfectly normal prototelepathic kid, who didn't deserve to face him alone. Unfortunately I hadn't figured out yet how to stop that vision from happening, and odds were, I was running out of time. It was a knot in my gut that never let go, a tension that didn't leave me.

I got up and put on a coat, going out to the back stoop for a cigarette of my own, watching the drizzle of the day fall slowly to earth and the smoke billow in the cold air. It was strange not to be in Atlanta. It was strange to smell the faint salt of ocean in the air, and see gnats in clouds. It was strange to feel the ancient oaks, almost minds, settled into Mindspace. And most of all, it was strange to be without Cherabino. She would know what to do right now, I thought. She would have something for me to do, some lead to trace down, some possibility to keep this thing from happening. She'd tell me we could handle it, and we would. We always did.

But I wasn't there for her now. I wasn't there to help her handle whatever it was, and that ate at me. It hurt. And worse than that was the absence I felt, the missing piece she left in my life, not being beside me.

There were days I spent every waking moment with her, and slept near her at night. There were days we passed each other in the department with a nod, too busy running from one thing to another to even speak. But mostly, even before she'd agreed to date me, even before Swartz had told me to ask, it was her. She was part of the warp and weft of every day, or she had been. Even recently, when I'd been doing so much volunteer work with Narcotics Anonymous, she'd
been there nearly every day. For her to be gone now— Well, I felt alone. Adrift.

I'd have to handle this one myself, and that terrified me.

I stubbed out the cigarette in a planter already full of butts and went back into the house. I could ask, at least.

I settled on the cushion and dialed. It rang three times, and I prayed she hadn't left her home phone off the hook completely. I couldn't take that. I wouldn't be able to hear her voice, and the silence would be the worst, the confirmation that whatever was going on was destroying her. Cherabino only took her phone off the hook when it had been a train wreck of a day, a bad day on the level of not just deaths, but bad deaths. Deaths of kids, or worse. She always seemed so strong—she had to—but the closer I'd gotten, the more I'd discovered it was an act. She cared deeply, and sometimes that caring hurt. Even so, she'd do anything for her job, for justice. It was one of the things I admired about her. The phone rang, again, and it hurt me I wasn't there.

She picked up. “Hello?” Her voice was irritated. It was like heaven.

“It's me,” I said.

“I was starting to think you'd fallen down a well. Do they not have phones down there? I almost went to bed already twice.”

I blinked. A year ago that tone would have put me off, or made me go on the offensive. But not now. I understood her too well, and I was too relieved to hear from her. “This is the first time I've been able to get away,” I lied. Simpler than listing the times I'd tried to call her. Then, cautiously: “I'm sorry I left without saying good-bye.”

She made a
hmrph
noise. “Work comes first. It always does. You left a message. How's the FBI treating you? Can you talk about the case?”

“You're not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” she asked, in a reasonable tone of voice.

I paused. This was not at all how I'd expected her reaction to go. “Um, I have no idea.”

“Well, then.”

A silence came over the line, and my worry came back.

After a moment, I offered, “The FBI seems a lot like the police department, without all the red tape. Or, at least, if there's red tape I'm not the one dealing with it. At the moment I'm watching someone.”

“Watching?” she asked, with a frown to her voice.

“Minding.” I paused. That wouldn't help. I tried to figure out how to explain it. She got grumpy sometimes until she understood something. “Remember when we had that threat against you in the Bradley case? How I followed you around so nobody could attack you telepathically?”

“Of course I remember you following me around. I still don't know what Minding is, though.”

“Um. Well . . .”

“Does it work with the fishbowl analogy?” she asked, into the pause.

“Sort of. More of a spider at the center of the web, maybe. I sit at the center of the web, and if I feel a vibration on the edges, I go out to see what it was. If it's a threat, I either shut it down myself or call for reinforcements. That's what I did, guarding you then.”

“Oh.” Another pause. I could hear her breathing, lightly, something surprisingly comforting in the dark hallway. Just having her here, even over the phone, meant the world.

I tried to figure out how to ask for help, which Swartz said I needed to do more of. How did I put what I needed into words?

But before I could, she said, “I'm glad you called. It's been a hard day. A terrible day.”

“What happened?” I asked. It was something to say to keep the conversation going. And I'd been so worried about her. “Are you okay?”

“Well.” She sighed. I could almost see her shaking her head. “It . . . they're escalating my inquiry. It starts tomorrow. I said I almost went to bed . . . the truth is, I can't sleep.”

“That's fast.”

“I know.”

“You didn't do anything. You don't have anything to worry about. Plus, your lawyer said she had a plan.” I said it quickly, forcefully, like I believed it. I had to believe it. But I couldn't see her, I couldn't read her, I couldn't tell how she was, not really.

“That's what she says. But they're lumping together the incident from early in the week in with the visit to Fiske's house. They're calling it a pattern. They're calling in the captain and Internal Affairs and now they're bringing in the county commissioner. Branen was right. This whole thing happening on the anniversary . . . well, it's bad. They're leaping to conclusions. It's in the paper.”

Crap, that was bad. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“No,” she said, a syllable that just sat between us. “No, they're saying I beat a guy to death. Of course I'm not okay. And for me to end up as the poster child for police brutality . . . well, it's ludicrous. The lawyer agrees with me, and she thinks the truth will come out. It'll be bad, but the truth will come out.”

“It has to,” I said. “You need me to testify, you say the word.”

“You can't leave Savannah.”

“Yeah,” I said. It was a sad sound, a sound of regret.

“I'd really like you to be here,” she said quietly.

I closed my eyes, guilt hitting me. “I can't. I . . . want to be there, I promise you.” But the vision and Tommy and all the rest . . . I couldn't live with myself if I left and then he died.

“I understand work,” she said, but her voice was hurt.

“Whatever you need, you tell me,” I said. “I'll find a way to do it from here.”

“I need Branen not to believe I did this thing. I need this stupid hearing not to be happening.”

She might as well have asked for me to grab the moon out of the sky and hand it to her. In some ways, that would be easier. I literally had no influence on any of that.

So, not knowing what to say, I said nothing. And neither did she. The silence lasted what felt like forever.

“I'm sorry.” Apologizing hurt, but for her, I'd walk over glass. “I really am.”

She sighed again. “Me too. Me too, okay? But I'll figure it out. The lawyer doesn't want you at the hearing anyway.”

“What's her plan?” I asked.

After a long pause, she said slowly, “She's pushing for an extension, and turning their character voucher requirement on its head. She's got twelve people willing to testify that I make good decisions in the field.” Her voice was stronger now. “Not just Michael. Some of the other detectives, the beat guys. My training officer's even coming out from retirement to be there. And she's going to be ripping through their nonevidence and their witnesses like crazy.”

“So the department's taking it personally. That's good for you,” I said, though what the hell did I know? “You've got the highest close rate in the department, and everybody knows you're doing three jobs for the salary. You prove that, with the budget crunch, they can't afford to lose you.”

“Maybe. We've still got the issue with Fiske. And the rookie.”

“No maybe about it. You're a good cop, Isabella. You know that, I know that, and the department knows that. Plus, you're cost-effective, and you get the job done. With Michael helping out, if anything your close rate has gone up. I'd bring up all of that too. Enough stories, the money going the right way, you become the poster child for a well-run police department. They have to understand that. They will.” I added the last firmly, trying to get myself to believe it.

After a pause: “I hate politics, Adam.”

“I know.”

“They're . . . this brutality thing, if it sticks . . .”

“You didn't do anything wrong,” I protested, into the silence in the dark hallway. “Nothing wrong!”

“If it sticks, I'll never live it down.”

And there was my worst fear made reality. She was scared. Given enough time, in person, she'd probably tell me that directly—I was a telepath, after all, and could reasonably be expected to know already. A lifetime in the cop world meant it wouldn't be easy for her to admit, though, not even to herself. I felt like I had to say something, anything, to make it better.

“You know how Swartz has another wise thing to say in pretty much every situation?” I asked her, desperate.

“He has a saying for when you're called up in front of Internal Affairs?” Clear disbelief was in her tone.

“Well, no. But remember the last time I lost my job with the department?”

“You mean two months ago?”

“Not November, before that. Three years ago.”

“Oh. Yeah. You're lucky Paulsen likes you or I never would have gotten you rehired after you fell off the wagon
again. Even if you did get through rehab with a recommendation.”

Ouch. “I got through rehab with a recommendation from the center director to the captain. Personally.”

“I still had to beg,” she said.

She was in a royal mood today, clearly. But with what was happening to her, maybe that was okay. “The point is that I didn't know what was going to happen, and it all seemed like it was going to fall apart. Swartz sat me down and waited with me. Do you know what he said?”

I waited.

Finally: “No. What did he say?”

“He said courage is not the absence of fear, but doing it past the fear. And that faith was stepping out when things were uncertain. ‘Builds character,' he said. ‘Do it anyway.' And I did.”

After a moment: “Easy to say when you know the ending.”

“Yeah,” I said, and realized I'd just given myself part of the answer I needed, completely by accident. Maybe. I still felt uncertain, and afraid, and was facing things I didn't really know how to face. Sibley scared me, and the thought of him threatening Tommy too . . .

“I'm nervous,” she said, meaning she was scared. I hated hearing her scared, and I hated not knowing what would happen, or how she'd react to the worst, if it came out.

“You know I'd do anything if I could take the blame for this one, right?”

“They've already cut you back to part-time and docked your pay twice after the rehire,” she said. “But they can't blame a teep for having a vision. They can't do anything else to you.”

She knew I hated the derogatory term for telepath, and her using it felt personal. I swallowed my protest. Instead I repeated, “You didn't do anything wrong, and they'll figure
that out. I have faith.” And I'd find a way to have faith in my own situation. I had to. It wasn't like Cherabino could really tell me how to deal with a vision. It wasn't her specialty any more than canvassing a neighborhood was mine.

“That makes one of us,” she said.

“You're not alone,” I said, one of the first things they teach you to say in the Twelve Steps program. But I felt alone, and I'm sure she did too.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You're welcome.” I thought about whether to tell her about Sibley, and then decided I had to. “There's a connection in this case to one of our old nemeses,” I said.