“Sure,” he said, “why not? Where do you want to go?”
He had to hand it to her—she was good. Damn good. The hand on his arm actually felt like it needed his support, and he could see tiny beads of sweat scattered across her forehead and the bridge of her freckled nose. He could hear the faint shudder of her uneven breathing. And even with her tousled head of sunshot red-gold curls just inches from his shoulder, he realized he hadn’t thought of cheerleaders since she’d first looked into his eyes.
“I don’t care, just—” She nodded toward the parking lot, crowded now with law enforcement and crime scene vehicles of all shapes and sizes. The news media, thank God, had been restricted to the park perimeter by manned police barricades. “Just anywhere. I need some distance. From where it happened.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” Annoyance made him tight-lipped and shorter with her than he should have been, though the annoyance was with himself for beginning to believe, even for a moment, that there might be something to her flimflam. And for not being smooth enough to think of a way to rid his arm of the oddly disturbing weight of her hand without seeming churlish.
They walked, slowly. He had the interrogator’s knack of patient waiting, and in due time it paid off. She began to talk, in a voice that seemed completely normal, nothing like the hoarse half whisper of a few minutes ago. She had a nice voice, he had to admit, with an almost musical lilt to it. Out of the blue he found himself wondering if she did sing, or play an instrument of some kind.
“I don’t know if I’ve been able to pick up much—anything that will help you identify the killer, that is. She didn’t know him. She was so afraid, at first. Later, she just wanted to know—she just kept asking Why? That was what was in her mind when she… At the end.”
Wade let out a breath, shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was about to ask. “What about him? The killer? Pick up any vibes from him?”
There was a long pause before she answered, and this time while he waited he allowed himself to look down at her, thinking—hoping—he might get some kind of clue to what made her tick. He didn’t, of course, but what he did get was an unexpected kick right square in the libido. Damn, but she was pretty, even with a little watermark frown marring the creamy perfection of her forehead.
She jerked a look up at him, as if she’d—damn it, he wasn’t going to believe she’d read his mind.
But he saw a pink tinge in her cheeks before she looked away again.
“Yes,” she said finally, with a small frustrated shake of her head, “but it’s all confused. Muddled. I can’t make sense of it. He’s…he was in a terrible hurry, for one thing. And distracted, almost, as if his mind wasn’t entirely on her—this victim. That really doesn’t seem right, does it?”
He stopped walking, mentally gritting his teeth at the thought of what he was going to say next, and turned to face her. “Okay, how about this? Don’t try to make sense of it. Just tell me what you saw. Uh, felt. Whatever.”
She nodded, touched the fingertips of both hands to her lips and closed her eyes. “Fear. That’s what he feels. He’s afraid, like a child is afraid. And in a hurry. He must hurry…finish this. He wants it over with. He’s not enjoying it. But he has to do it. Has to. He isn’t seeing her. Or—he sees her, but she’s all mixed up with…others. Other faces. I can’t—”
“Other faces? His other victims, you mean?”
“I don’t know…some of them, maybe. Yes, definitely some. But others…” She shook her head, opened her eyes and aimed them at him, and instinctively he threw up his emotional defenses to block against the pain and confusion he saw in them. “I don’t remember seeing any of them at the briefing this morning.”
“Could be more victims we haven’t found yet…” He heard himself say the words, musing, half to himself, and couldn’t believe it. His mind flashed a silent blasphemy.
She’d started walking again, but now she stopped and looked at him. “Uniforms. He’s…I think he’s afraid of uniforms.”
Wade almost laughed, but snorted instead. Talk about obvious. Once again he’d almost bought it, whatever it was she was selling. “Cops, you mean? Well, he damn well better be,” he said in the even tone he employed when he was on the verge of losing his temper. “Because we’re going to nail this creep’s ass.”
Hopefully, he thought, before he kills anyone else.
Tierney stared at him, frowning a little.
Uniforms…cops…? No, that’s not…it’s something… something… Wait…I can’t…
But it was gone, the emotions dissolving in her consciousness like smoke in the wind.
She studied the detective’s profile, noting the narrowing of the eyes behind the dark glasses, the tension in the jaw. He was struggling with his disbelief, fighting hard to hold on to it. She didn’t have to have The Gift to deduce that. But other than that…
I can’t read him. He’s shielding himself from me—which is proof he does believe, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
Okay, except for that one moment, that blast of pure lust. He hadn’t quite been able to shield that—few men could. She was used to that sort of response from men, but she didn’t think she’d ever get over being embarrassed by it.
Probably she was just tired. Crime scenes always did that to her. The intensity of emotions—the pain, the fear, the rage and regret—sapped her energy the way a bout of the flu would, leaving her wobbly and light-headed. Utterly drained. She wanted—needed—to renew her soul. Maybe go up to the Rose Garden, to feed on the pure joy and simple beauty there. Or to the empty quiet, the complete absence of emotion that was her home so often these days…
The step was there unexpectedly, the step down from the curbing that separated the sidewalk from the parking lot. She didn’t see it, wasn’t ready for it, and it jarred the left side of her body all the way to her jaw. She stumbled and lurched forward, bracing for a humiliating fall. And instead felt a hand close hard around her upper arm.
At the same instant her mind felt the sting of profound emotional turmoil, like a slap in the face. It was a sense of loneliness and frustration and loss, and also of empty spaces, as if pieces of the man were missing, simply not there. It unnerved her, in that one brief moment before it was gone, and its going left her feeling oddly bereft and at the same time awed, as if she’d happened to catch a glimpse, just one silvery flash, of some extraordinarily rare and elusive creature.
“Are you all right?”
The detective was looking at her with that compassionate frown again, and she realized she had caught hold of his forearm and was clinging to it like a sapling in a hurricane. Lord only knew what he must have thought—that she’d injured something, sprained an ankle, probably.
She hastily let go of his arm and said, “Yes—yes, I’m fine—thank you—” her voice made jerky by the brushes and tugs she was making to her hair and clothing, setting herself to rights. “I didn’t see that step. I’m sorry.”
“No problem.” His voice was the cop’s, flat, devoid of all expression. So were his eyes, as he went on looking at her in that narrowed-down way cops
