Chapter Two
Two
Bruce alerted, ears sharpening. Sophy could have sworn that there was some serious energy in his amber eyes. He growled softly.
“It’s all right,” she said to the dog. “The ghosts aren’t real.”
She was in her trance voice now. She knew it sounded eerie, as if she was one of the ghosts. But the dog did not seem to care. Maybe he was accustomed to creepy voices.
He padded forward and stopped beside her. When he leaned against her right leg she realized he was shivering with battle-ready tension. She rested a hand on his head.
“I know the feeling,” she said. “But it’s not real. You need to think of this as an instant replay.”
When, as a teen, she had begun encountering the shadowy figures that hovered near scenes of violence and tragedy, she had been traumatized by the possibility that she was seeing ghosts.
Aunt Bea had explained that the visions were her intuition’s way of making sense of the paranormal energy deposited in such places.
Violence of any kind left a lot of residual radiation.
The spectral shadows were just an example of metaphysics in action.
Her logical side accepted the scientific explanation for the manifestations but that did not change the fact that when she was in the zone the phantoms seemed all too real. Nor did it alter her emotional and physical responses. Those she had to suppress with raw willpower.
She studied the smoking ghost.
“The curtains are closed but I can tell that it is night,” she said in her otherworldly voice.
“A figure is pacing back and forth. I can’t make out a face or give you a description but something about the way he moves tells me I’m watching a man.
He’s excited. Sweating. Smoking a cigarette.
Working himself up to do something…intense.
Thrilling. There’s a vibe of madness. It’s as if he can barely hang on to his control. ”
She watched the shadowy figure stalk around the small space for a moment, trying to pick up more insights, but nothing else about the apparition stood out. She resumed the narration.
“He’s got something in his right hand. A gun, I think.
He hears a sound that makes him go to the window.
He peeks through the curtains. Now he’s even more excited but in a very sick way.
I can sense the anticipation of violence in the energy he left behind.
I think he hears a knock on the door because he suddenly heads back across the room.
His energy field is suddenly spiking. He’s hot. On fire.”
“What do you mean by on fire?” Luke asked.
His question slipped into the dream in the most casual manner.
For a second or two she wondered if it was her imagination.
No one had ever been able to communicate with her while she was in the zone, not without breaking the trance.
The awareness of just how alone she was when she employed her talent at full strength was one of the many reasons she hated doing crime scene work.
“Are you referring to his talent?” Luke continued when she did not respond.
She had not imagined it. He was communicating with her even though she was deep in the trance. For once she wasn’t alone in the ghost zone. But why did Luke Wells have to be the one person who could reach her?
She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was a professional. She concentrated on Smoking Ghost. Fierce, erratic waves of energy crackled in the air around the figure.
“He’s got a powerful talent of some kind,” she said, aware that she was still in her trance voice.
“I think he intends to use his psychic ability to murder whoever is at the door.” She hesitated, trying to read the energy around the ghost. “It won’t be his first time. He knows it will give him a rush.”
“So he’s the killer,” Luke said on a note of cold satisfaction. “And we know he smokes. With luck he will have left some cigarette butts here in the cabin. I’ll look for them later. Try to get a read on his talent.”
“Will you please shut up?” she said in her other voice. “I’m about to witness a murder. Do you realize how much I hate watching someone get killed knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop it?”
“The murder has already happened. You’re just reconstructing the scene. This is what you do. You told Bruce it was a kind of instant replay.”
“One more word out of you, Wells, and I’ll come out of the trance before the killer opens the door. If that happens you won’t get any more answers.”
Bruce whined. Apparently Luke got the message. At least he stopped talking. Sophy fought the fear and frustration that sluiced through her veins as she waited to witness a murder. She absolutely hated this part.
“The ghost is watching the door, waiting for it to open,” she said, so consumed with dread and so off-balance from the knowledge that Luke had invaded the trance that she did not realize she had used the word ghost until it was too late.
Shit. That was not good. But at least Luke didn’t question it.
A spectral shadow loomed in the doorway.
“I see the victim. He’s about to enter the cabin.”
“Just one person?” Luke asked.
She decided to ignore the interruption because it dawned on her that his voice was like a chain or a rope—a lifeline she could use to pull herself out of the trance if her worst nightmares came true and she got trapped.
She wanted to scream a warning to the individual who was about to be murdered by Smoking Ghost but that would be pointless. She wasn’t watching the unfolding horror in real time. It’s over, she thought. There’s nothing you can do now.
She went very still and waited, her throat tight, her breathing shallow, her pulse racing. The ghosts aren’t real. Not real.
The victim walked into the room.
“Smoking Ghost raises the gun,” she said. “No, not a gun, but it’s a weapon of some kind.”
The brilliant flashes of fierce energy slammed into the victim.
Her first thought was that the killer had unleashed a lethal paranormal talent.
The ability to kill with psychic energy was rare but there were rumored to be a few monster talents who could do it.
The fact that such individuals existed was one of the excuses the Foundation used to justify its quasi police force and Halcyon Manor, the private prison disguised as a psychiatric hospital.
The victim froze as if struck by lightning, mouth open on a silent scream. He convulsed, clutched at his chest, and crumpled to the floor.
The killer stopped firing the weapon. For a moment he seemed overcome with the thrill of the kill. And then he lurched into action.
“The killer is dragging the dead man out of the cabin,” Sophy said. “Now they are both gone.” She paused. “Does your uncle smoke?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
It was weird to be able to communicate like this from the trance but it gave her a newfound sense of normalcy. That was even more weird. She was not accustomed to feeling any version of normal when she was on the other side like this.
“Deke wasn’t the killer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Luke stated with unflinching authority.
Well, of course he would protect a family member, she thought. In his place, she would have cheerfully lied through her teeth if necessary.
“How can you be certain?” she asked, curious to see if he had a logical response.
“Uncle Deke would not have gotten worked up to a sick fever pitch by the thought of murdering someone. I’m not saying he wouldn’t kill in a life or death situation.
But he would not have gotten off on the prospect of ending a life.
And by the way, I am offended by the suggestion that my uncle is a sociopathic murderer. ”
“I am, of course, relieved to hear that my aunt isn’t dating a sociopath.”
“I’m aware that the Harpers don’t think too highly of the Wellses.”
“What a coincidence. I’m aware that the members of the Wells clan believe all Harpers are cat burglars, safecrackers, and low-rent con artists.”
“After what I paid you for the reading tonight, I’m willing to testify that whatever else you are, you are not low-rent,” Luke said. “I suggest we forget ancient history, at least for now. We don’t need the distraction.”
He had a point. Also, she needed to get out of the trance.
She was pushing her limits. Time seemed to flow differently when she was in the waking dreamstate.
It was easy to lose track. But she had learned a few things over the years and one was that the longer she remained in the trance, the faster and harder the ice fever would strike when she emerged.
“So, we’ve got an unidentified dead man and a deranged killer who smokes,” Luke said. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
She thought about the strange gun the killer had used. “The weapon is very odd. It fires some kind of energy. It reminded me of a strobe light.”
There was a brief moment of silence while Luke processed that.
“A paranormal weapon?” he asked finally.
“Maybe, but I can’t be certain. It definitely isn’t a regular pistol.” She paused. “You don’t sound surprised by the possibility that the device might be based on paranormal tech.”
“There are a few psi-based weapons out there,” he said. “They date from the days of the old Bluestone Project. The one thing they have in common is that they are extremely dangerous to use.”
“Because they fire paranormal radiation of some kind?”
“Well, that and the fact that most people can’t handle them, at least not for long. According to my great-grandfather’s journal, that was the main reason the program tasked with developing psi-guns was forced to abandon the project. They were as dangerous to the shooter as they were to the target.”
Her librarian’s curiosity kicked in.
“Why?”
“Because the act of firing the weapons produced a psychic recoil that, over time, damaged the shooter’s aura. Continued use resulted in insanity and death.”
“I see. Well, this killer certainly seems unstable.”