She was looking up at him with swimming eyes when he bent down and kissed her.

Not a long kiss. Just a short, sweet one. Very sweet, although her lips tasted of salt and tears. He felt a peculiar little contraction around his heart as he pushed back from her and gently closed the car door.

He looked over at Tierney, who was sitting exactly as he’d left her after the kiss. “Hey,” he said, and she swivelled her head towards him, looking dazed. His heart gave another of those funny kicks as he wondered for a moment whether he’d gone too far, crossed some kind of line with her. He sure hoped not. Because he suddenly knew that he’d be losing something of real importance if he had.

Then she smiled. Just that. And he knew he had crossed a line – and that there was no going back now.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen Creighton has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old-timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today she says she is interested in everything – art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history, but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing, and now combines her two loves in romance novels. Check her out at www.kathleencreighton.com.

Danger Signals

KATHLEEN CREIGHTON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is for the brothers and sisters

I’ve never met

And who don’t know I exist.

Yet.

If the Fates allow,

I will find you…

Someday.

Prologue

In a house on the shores of a small lake, somewhere in South Carolina …

“Pounding…that’s always the first thing. Someone—my father—is banging on the door. Banging…pounding…with his fists, feet, I don’t know. Trying to break it down.”

“And…where are you?”

“I’m in a bedroom, I think. I don’t remember which one. I have the little ones with me. It’s my job to look after them when my father is having one of his…spells. I have to keep them out of his way. Keep them safe. I’ve taken them into the bedroom and I’ve locked the door, except…I don’t trust the lock, so I’ve wedged a chair under the handle, like my mom showed me. Only now I’m afraid, terrified even that won’t be enough. I can hear the wood splintering… breaking. I know it will only take a few more blows and he’ll be through. My mother is screaming…crying. I hold on to the little ones—I have my arms around them, and they’re all trembling. The twins, the little girls, are sobbing and crying, ‘Mama, Mama…’ but the boys just cry quietly.

“I hear sirens…more sirens, getting louder and louder until it seems they’re coming right into the room, and there are lots of people shouting, and all of a sudden the pounding stops. There’s a moment—several minutes— when all I hear is the little ones whimpering…and then, there’s a loud bang, so loud we—the children and I—all jump. We hold each other tighter, and there’s another bang, and we flinch again, and then there’s just confusion…voices shouting…footsteps running…glass breaking…the little ones crying…and I think I might be crying, too…”

“Oh, God…I’m sorry, Cory. It’s all right…it’s all right…I love you…I’ve got you…”

He discovered he was crying, but he also knew it was all right. He was all right. Sam, his wife, was holding him tightly, cradling his head against her breasts, and her hands were gentle as they wiped the tears from his face.

“I’m going to find them, Sam. My brothers and sisters. I have to find them.”

Samantha felt warm moisture seep between her lashes. “Of course you do.” She lifted her head and took his face between her hands and smiled fiercely at him through her tears. “We’ll find them together, Pearse,” she whispered. “We’ll find them. I promise you we will.”

Chapter 1

Portland, Oregon

Detective Wade Callahan had nothing against mind readers, or fortune-tellers, or whatever they were calling themselves nowadays. So long as they stuck to their tarot cards and beaded curtains and refrained from activities that might conceivably engage the interests of the bunko squad. As far as he was concerned, those so-called psychics had no business in a police squad room unless it was as a victim or perpetrator of a crime.

And, given the nature of their business, he figured one scenario was about as likely as the other.

They sure as hell had no business wandering around a crime scene. Particularly his crime scene.

For some reason the fact that this one happened to be a particularly attractive woman only made matters worse. What in the hell was the captain thinking? And who’d ever heard of a psychic with tousled sunshine hair and big, innocent blue eyes, freckles scattered across her rosy cheeks and pert little…

Ah, hell.

“You’re growling again,” Ed Francks said, giving him an elbow nudge in the ribs.

“Wasn’t growling,” Wade growled. “Muttering. That was muttering. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh.” His former partner looked him over, eyebrows raised in mild rebuke. “Best get used to it, man. You heard what the captain said. She’s part of the task force from now on.” He shrugged. “Anyways, from what I hear this one could be the real deal.”

Ed Francks was a Vietnam vet who’d seen too many young lives wasted in the jungles and rice paddies of the Mekong Delta and was spending his life making up for that by teaching young police recruits how to stay alive in the urban jungles of Portland, Oregon. He was a gentle bear of a man and a tough task master of a police sergeant and one hell of a fine police officer who, in Wade’s opinion, should have been made detective long ago. And no doubt would have, if he’d wanted any part of it.

It had been a long time since Wade had been partnered with Francks, but he’d requested him for this task force because he had a fine analytical mind and more common sense than anybody else he knew, and was the person he most wanted watching his back when push came to shove. Which didn’t mean he always agreed with him.

“Yeah, well, she looks more like a damn high school cheerleader than somebody that talks to dead people,” Wade muttered. Muttered, not growled.

“That’s not what she does.” Francks had shifted unconsciously into his drill sergeant’s pose—feet planted apart, arms folded on his chest. Now he tilted his shaved head toward the woman wandering—apparently aimlessly—around the section of park playground that had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape. “You heard her at the briefing. She picks up vibes. Feels things.”

Wade made an ambiguous noise.

Francks looked over at him, black eyes reflecting sunlight in a way that turned them the color of dead ripe plums. “I don’t know. Could be something in it. The way she explained it, she says all thoughts and emotions give off electrical energy—that’s a proven fact—and it stands to reason intense emotions would give off a whole lot more energy. Like fear…rage…the kinds of things you’d expect from somebody involved in a crime, particularly a homicide. So, say there’s all this energy floating around, it seems like there might be people, certain people, that are more sensitive to it, that could maybe pick up on it. Like, you know, the way dogs can smell things we can’t.” He stiffened his stance, as if to shore up his case. “Sounds possible to me.”

Wade snorted—nothing ambiguous about it. “Come on.”

“Look, all I know is, she’s had some success working with other departments—Seattle, San Francisco, L.A.—and there was that kidnapping in Yreka last summer, she was involved with that. Hey, man, let’s face it, we’re not getting anywhere with these murders, and she lives right here in Portland. Be pretty dumb not to give her a shot, seems to me. What’ve we got to lose?”

“Credibility?” Wade said dryly. “Self-respect?”

He looked over at the woman. She was sitting in one of the swings with her head down and her hands over her face. She didn’t look so much like a cheerleader now as a little girl who’d lost her mommy.

Well, hell, he thought. I’ve got to talk to the woman sooner or later. Might as well be now.

“Play nice,” Francks called to him as he hitched his jacket more squarely on his shoulders and stepped over the curbing into the sandy playground.

Wade grunted.

Darkness…cold…so cold.

Fear…paralyzing fear…can’t think…should fight, struggle…maybe if I could scream…I am screaming! Why can’t I hear myself screaming?

Don’t hurt me! Please…don’t hurt…don’t hurt…nohurtnohurtnomorehurtpleaseplease…

Oh God… No! No…no…

Can’t be happening…not real…can’t be real!

I can’t die! Please…I don’t want to die!

I don’t understand…why are you doing this?

Why…why…why…

“Why…what?”

The voice was deep and flat, and came from somewhere outside the terror that held her in its clammy web. Tierney Doyle clung to the voice, used it like a lifeline and managed to haul herself back to corporeal reality, the tangible, tasteable, seeable world. As she struggled to focus on the tall figure of the man standing in front of her she felt the reassuring hug of the swing seat around the backs of her thighs, the warm Portland sunshine beating down on her head, the bite of the steel chains she’d gripped so hard she knew there would be red indentations and white ridges across her fingers and palms when she let go.

She touched a toe to the depression in the sand beneath the swing dug by small, pushing feet, making the swing rotate slightly as she looked up, up, up, past the slightly rumpled tan slacks, the darker brown sport jacket with the Portland P.D. detective’s badge pinned to the pocket, the unbuttoned shirt collar and the hard, square jaw wearing a hint of five o’clock shadow, though it was not yet noon. On up to eyes the color of mountain lakes under cloudless skies, with lashes any woman would die for.

“What?” she said vaguely as she met the look of cold appraisal in those deep-blue eyes. This she recognized—she’d seen that look often enough before. A skeptic, obviously, like so many in his line of work.

“Are you all right? You looked like you were about to pass out.” It wasn’t an expression of sympathy; his mouth hadn’t softened, though there was a pleat of frown lines between his dark brows.

Skepticism, but compassion, too. Nice, even though he doesn’t look it.

She tried to produce a smile, but it was too soon. Too soon. “I’m fine,” she murmured, and mentally added a determined, I will be.

She rose from the swing but kept one hand tightly on the chain, uncertain of her legs. She brushed at the seat of her pants and nodded in a way that took in the sandy playground, the children’s play equipment incongruously painted in happy primary colors, and the people—not children, but grown-ups, dressed in muted shades of gray and tan and brown—moving purposefully among them. Like sparrows, she thought, foraging in a bed of flowers. “It gets to me sometimes, that’s all.”

“Yeah, crime scenes can be tough,” the detective said, slipping a pair of sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket and putting them on. “Especially on civilians.”

She glanced up at him, and this time she did smile. “You’re not a believer in…what I do.”

His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “Wow, you are a mind reader.”

“I read emotions, not minds.”

And he watched her eyes change, an effect so unmistakable it startled him, but which he couldn’t have described to save his life. A veil…a shadow…and yet, neither of those. Somehow, though they continued to gaze into his, her eyes seemed to be looking at something else, something only she could see. He wanted to tell her to stop whatever it was she was doing. She was creeping him out. But before he could open his mouth, she spoke again, in a hoarse almost-whisper.

“He tortured her…tied her here—” she gestured toward the swing that hung limp and empty next to the one she clung to “—so her feet wouldn’t touch the ground. He cut her, burned her…” And as she spoke the words in a breathy undertone her hand wandered here and there over her body, showing him where.

A strange prickling sensation washed over his skin. He felt his stomach go cold. How could she know that? No one outside the task force knows that—no one. And it wasn’t covered in the briefing this morning, either.

“Who told you that?” he demanded, his voice raw with anger. But she didn’t seem to hear him.

“He covered her mouth with something—tape, I think—so she couldn’t scream. Couldn’t—” She let go of the chain suddenly and gripped his arm instead. He felt the cold of her hand through the layers of his shirt and jacket. The veil—whatever it was—was gone from her eyes and they focused on him again. “Please—I need to get away from it. From here. This place. Do you mind?”

“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 have that can make even the most innocent of citizens feel guilty as sin. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Really. I just…I think I’d like to go home now, if there’s nothing else you…” He shook his head, and she drew a sharp quick breath of profound relief. “I’m going to need a ride, though—I came in a squad car. I’m sorry to bother you, but is there someone you could ask…?”

“I’ll take you. Where do you live?”

“Oh, but you—I’m sure you must be very busy. I don’t want—”

“It’s no problem. I’m heading back to the shop anyway. Nothing more I can do here.” He took a firmer grip on her arm and steered her to the left, away from the media trucks and waiting cameras.

He couldn’t have said why he was doing this, not with any truthfulness. He told himself he wanted to ask her some questions, find out more about her and her so-called impressions. Never entertained the thought there could be any other reason for spending another minute in the woman’s company.

She seems so vulnerable. Is it an act? I’m a cop, I should be able to tell. But I can’t. What is it she feels when she looks at me? Does she know about—

But those thoughts he pushed firmly out of his mind and slammed and locked the door to make sure they stayed out.

Okay, so she’s one hell of an attractive woman. And I’m a guy. Guys like attractive women, so why should I be any different?

Yeah, but she’s not my type, he told himself, kicking that thought out the door, as well. He wasn’t exactly sure what his type was, except for one thing: he liked his women sexy and fun and without complications. And while this one could probably pass muster on the first requirement, he had real doubts about the second. And as for number three, well…he was pretty sure complicated didn’t even begin to describe her.

Neither of them spoke again until they were settled in the front seats of his unmarked gray sedan. She—what was her name? Started with a T. Terry? Tracy? No—something unusual. Damn.

“Where to, Miss…” He let it hang just long enough.

“It’s Doyle. But please call me Tierney.” She glanced at him as she clicked her seat belt into place, and he wondered once more if she’d read his mind and taken pity on him. But she didn’t read minds…or claimed she didn’t. “Or even Tee,” she added, “if you wish. Some people do.” Her half smile told him she knew the chances of him doing likewise were slim.

Which was maybe why he said, out of pure contrariness, “Okay, Miss Tee it is, then. I’m Wade, by the way. Wade Callahan.” He turned in his seat to offer his hand. Did it out of long habit, then kicked himself for hesitating, for having second thoughts. For wondering whether it was “safe” to touch her, or if physical contact might open up some kind of psychic channel between them. Kicked himself all the more for even thinking those thoughts, knowing it meant he had to believe at least some of what she claimed to be able to do might be real.

Her hand was warm in his, small but vibrant, reminding him of a gentle but wary animal that had allowed him to hold it for one short moment in his grasp.

“Wade,” she murmured, and there was a shimmer of amusement in her eyes. Eyes so clear and blue and…yes, normal, he wondered how anyone in their right mind could believe she had creepy gifts. The Sight—or whatever she wanted to call it.

He released her hand and was smiling crookedly as he wrapped his around the gearshift lever, wondering whether it was himself or her he was smiling at.

She lived with her grandmother, he discovered, in an apartment above an art gallery called Jeannette’s, in a formerly hippieish part of the city that was gradually becoming yuppified. No surprises there; Wade figured if he ever wanted to hang out his psychic shingle it was the place he’d choose. Just enough hippie left to provide plenty of local ambience, with a New Age slant to appeal to the yuppies who went in for that sort of thing.

What did surprise him, though, when Tierney led him through the gallery to the stairs at the back, was how much of the artwork on display actually appealed to him. The watercolors particularly. Not the roses, so much, although he could see the real artistry in them. They were a bit too pretty and feminine—for want of a better word—for his taste. But the waterfalls, now those he wouldn’t mind hanging on his own walls. There was something about them… He paused to look closer at one, and a coolness, like fresh moist air, seemed to pour into him, filling all the churning dark places. He felt a strange easing inside, a sense of quietude and peace.

“That’s Multnomah Falls,” Tierney said. “It’s one of my favorite places.” He hadn’t been aware of her coming to stand beside him.

“Yeah,” he said, “mine, too.” He saw it now, the neat and vaguely archaic signature in the lower righthand corner: T. Doyle. He glanced at her and stated the obvious. “These are yours.”

She nodded without looking away from the painting, her smile crooked. “When I’m working on a case—like this one—I like to go there, or to places like it. Places where people feel a sense of awe. Or just…happy. Thankful.” She nodded at a panel hung with a grouping of the rose paintings. “The Portland Rose Gardens—that’s another, and it’s closer, easier to get to when I’m…when I need it. Those emotions—good emotions—nourish me. The other kind, the bad emotions…” She shook her head and glanced up at him before moving away. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sure you’re not interested, since you don’t believe in what I do.”

“Haven’t made up my mind on that score, actually.” He was surprised to discover that was true, and judging from the smile he glimpsed as he held the door she’d opened, so was she.

He followed her through the door into a small passageway that led to what appeared to be an office, or maybe a storeroom, and the back entrance to the right, and to the left, a flight of stairs. The space smelled of some sort of cleaning product—maybe several mixed up together. Whatever it was, he couldn’t quite place it. “But I’d be interested, whether I believe in what you do or not. I’m always interested in what makes people tick.”

“Tick?” A ripple of light laughter drifted down to him as she mounted the stairs ahead of him. “You mean, you’d like to know what my ‘racket’ is, don’t you?”

“Well, sure,” he said, carefully screening his enjoyment at the view. “That, too.”

On the landing at the top of the stairs, Tierney paused to take a key from the pocket of her slacks and insert it in the door’s dead bolt lock.

“If you don’t mind waiting here for a moment, I’ll see if my grandmother’s…” The rest she left hanging as she opened the door and stepped inside, leaving him standing on the landing.

After a moment he pushed on the door she’d left almost closed but unlatched, widening the crack so he could hear what was going on inside the apartment. Didn’t hesitate or feel guilty about it, either. That was the thing about being a cop—nosiness pretty much went with the territory.

He heard Tierney call softly, her voice light, sweet, gentle, as if she were talking to a very small child. “Jennie, darling, it’s Tee…”

There was a ripple of laughter, low and musical, and a voice to match it said, “Hello, dear.”

The next words were muffled, as if by an embrace. “Gran, do you feel like having company? I’ve brought a friend. His name is Wade Callahan. Would you like to meet him?”

More of that laughter, and the voice took on a certain unmistakable lilt. “Wade Callahan—a fine Irish name! Have him come in, by all means. I’d dearly love to meet him.”

“Are you sure? You’re not too tired?”

“Not at all, darlin’—what gave you such an idea? I’m never too tired to meet a friend of yours, particularly an Irish lad.”

Tierney’s face appeared in the partly open doorway, looking flustered. “Sorry about that,” she murmured breathlessly as she opened the door wide and beckoned him in. “Detective—ah, Wade, I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Jeannette Doyle.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected—an invalid, someone frail and ancient, but sprightly, perhaps?—but it sure as hell wasn’t the person who rose from a chair near the window as he entered, holding out her hand in greeting.

She was, quite possibly, the most exquisitely beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She wasn’t tall, but her slender build and the way she carried herself made her seem so. Her head sat atop her long neck at an angle that made him think of ballerinas in flowing white dresses, or a queen bestowing her grace upon her subjects. Her hands seemed to have a life of their own, like white doves or lilies, and her hair, parted in the middle and falling in gentle waves to her shoulders, was an incredible shade of red-gold that seemed to capture light where there was none and give it back a thousand times brighter. She wore slim black slacks and a long tunic top in a soft sea-green, with iridescent blue-and-gold braided trim around the edges of the draped sleeves and neckline, and open-toed, wedge-heeled gold slippers.

“Wade Callahan,’ tis a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was flirtatious as a girl’s, her blue-green eyes bright and wicked.

And it was only then, when she drew near enough to reach out and place those graceful white hands in his, that he saw the lines around her mouth, the softness of her jawline, the fragile crepelike skin around her eyes that gave away her age. Though just what that might be, he wouldn’t even venture to guess.

She pulled her hands from his and tilted her head, regarding him in a measuring sort of way. “But you’re no more Irish than the pope, now, are you, lad?”

He caught a breath and let it go in a gust of surprised laughter, almost covering Tierney’s dismayed gasp.

“Gran!”

“Well, he isn’t,” the lady hissed back, like an obstinate child.

Tierney shot him a look of mute apology. She seemed tense, watchful, Wade thought, like an anxious parent with a precocious and unpredictable child. His cop sense prickled along the back of his neck, telling him something was “off” here—not dangerous or anything like that—just odd.

“No, it’s okay. She’s right,” he said, surprising himself; his personal history wasn’t something he normally shared with strangers. “I was adopted. It’s my adoptive parents who are Irish.” He smiled winningly at the old lady. “Ma’am, I don’t have any idea what I am, to tell you the truth. Mongrel, I expect.”

Jeannette hesitated, looked wary, suddenly, and frightened. Wade felt a creeping sensation along the back of his neck as she leaned forward and peered into his face. One frail-looking hand clutched his with surprising strength. “Do I know you?”

“No, Gran,” Tierney began, but the old lady had already jerked around to transfer her anxious hands and worried frown to her granddaughter.

“I don’t know him, do I? Who is he? What is he doing here? Is he lost?” On that last word, her musical voice dropped to a cracking whisper. “I believe he’s lost, Isabella. Go and get him some tea. And some biscuits. He’s probably hungry, young boys are always hungry, you know…”

Chapter 2

“Yes, Jennie, darling,” Tierney said soothingly as she put her arm around her grandmother’s shoulders and gently turned her toward the kitchen, “I’m sure he is hungry. Why don’t you go and find some biscuits to go with the tea. And some sandwiches would be nice.”

She didn’t look at the detective. She was too busy bracing against the fractured emotions—confusion, fear, grief and anger—that radiated from Jeannette in waves at times like these. She couldn’t worry right now about what he might be thinking. She’d felt his sharp flash of recognition before the barriers slammed shut like storm shutters, but no doubt the clamor of Jeannette’s emotions would have overwhelmed his anyway.

She left her grandmother opening cupboards and muttering to herself and went back to the living room, bracing for the inevitable questions. The suffocating blanket of sympathy.

She found Detective Callahan where she had left him, hands in his pockets, jacket askew, watching her with thoughtful, compassionate eyes.

You’re right, Jennie, darling, lost is a better word than missing. He’s lost those pieces of himself.

“That will occupy her for a while. She won’t remember such a complicated task,” she explained with a small smile of apology. “She’ll sit down at the table and try to pick up the threads, which will be upsetting for her. To avoid it she’ll go somewhere inside her mind, somewhere in her past where she was happy. That’s where she spends most of her time now.”

“Alzheimer’s?” the detective asked. She nodded, and he murmured, “I’m sorry.” The sympathy was there, but muted, as all his emotions seemed to be.

Except for those bright flashes, like strobe lights in the dark. “So am I. I wish you could have known her the way she was. She was…something.”

“She still is.”

She threw him a quick, grateful glance and thought, He has the nicest eyes. Kind eyes. An instant later she saw those same eyes narrow and become slightly less kind.

“Who is Isabella?”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” she said lightly, stepping past him to open the door. “That’s my mother’s name. Gran calls me that when she’s…confused. Which is why I call her Jennie, then—she doesn’t understand why I would call her Gran when as far as she’s concerned she’s my mother.”

He followed her onto the landing. “Jennie? Not Mom or Mother?”

“Evidently,” she said, without looking up as she closed and locked the door, “that’s what my mother called her.”

“Evidently?”

“I haven’t seen my mother since I was three.”

“Ah.” His tone was flat, but she felt a wave of something warm, almost like kinship wafting after her as he followed her down the stairs. At the bottom he glanced at her before reaching past her to open the door—a gesture of gallantry she suspected must be automatic for him. Someone had taught him manners, and taught them well. “Something we have in common, I guess.” She threw him a curious look and he gave her back his wry smile. “I don’t remember my mother, either.”

She couldn’t know what a rare thing it was for him to talk about that stuff—at least he didn’t think she could. He sure as hell didn’t know what made him do it.

“I never said I don’t remember her,” she said as she passed him. “My memories of my mother are quite vivid, actually.”

“From when you were three? Is that part of the…” He waved a hand, trying to think of a term that wouldn’t be insulting. “Your psychic thing?”

“In a way, I guess.” She smiled at him in a gently forgiving way. “I’ve gotten all the memories I have of my mother from Jeannette.”

It took him maybe three heartbeats to get it. Then he said, “Ah” again—a bit more sardonic, this time. “Your grandmother has it, too, then? This…”

“Gift?” They were passing through the gallery, and he saw Tierney pause to touch the watercolor painting of Multnomah Falls. He saw tension in the lines between her eyebrows and wondered if she had a headache. “Days like this, it’s hard to think of it that way.”

Then she seemed to shake it off, whatever the darkness was, and moved on. “My grandmother’s…abilities, or whatever you want to call them, are different from mine. I am what is known, in the psychic world—” she cut her eyes at him in a droll way that made him chuckle “—as an empath. There’s probably a word for what Jeannette is, as well, but I don’t know what it is. She just…knows things. About people. Like she knew you aren’t really Irish. Plus, she and I have this special connection, I guess, because we can share memories. Normally, I don’t really see actual images, but with her I can. Used to, anyway.” Her face seemed to cloud over. “I used to see them—her memories of my mother—like photos in an album. Color photos, clear and bright. Now…well, now they’re sort of fragmented, like a jumbled jigsaw puzzle.”

I have memories like that.

The thought came to him with a flash of surprise, like what his mother used to call a lightbulb moment—from the comics, she’d explain. He heard himself say, “I know what you mean.” And frowned, because he hadn’t meant to voice the thought out loud.

Tierney glanced up at him, smiling her gentle smile.

Yes…I think you do. That’s what these flashes I keep getting from you are all about. We’ve a kinship, you and I, whether you like it or not. The truth is, neither of us had a chance to know our parents.

“How old were you when you were adopted?” And she wondered, even as she asked it, how she’d found the audacity to probe into the personal business of so guarded and resistant a man.

She was greatly surprised when he hitched a shoulder in an offhand way and answered her. “I don’t know—six, I think. Maybe seven.”

“Really? You weren’t a baby, then. What happened to your parents?” But this time she knew at once she’d gone too far. She saw his jaw tighten, and he didn’t answer right away. She muttered, “I’m sorry,” putting up a hand as if to stop herself. “Forgive me, please. I’m not—It’s none of my business, I know.”

The detective let out a breath, frowning. “No, it’s a legitimate question, considering the conversation.” He paused, shifting his car keys from one hand to the other and back again, then turned to her. “They’re dead, that’s all I know.” His grin appeared, tilted in a way that made curious pleasure-ripples course through her chest. “Believe me, as a police detective it irks me no end to have to admit that. I’ve tried—” He broke it off with a shake of his head, seemed to hesitate, then turned to the gallery door.

“Do you remember them?” Tierney asked softly. “Your parents?”

She was unprepared for the sudden surge of emotion, followed by a withdrawal so abrupt it was almost violent, like a slap in the face. She stepped back reflexively, and so almost missed his reply, spoken in a quiet voice and without turning.

“I don’t remember anything from before I was adopted.”

Still reeling from the emotional one-two punch, she couldn’t have spoken even if she’d been able to think of what to say. After a brief but electric silence, he threw her a glance that didn’t quite make contact.

“Yeah, look—I need to get back to the job.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“Let me know if you get any more on our killer—or the victims.”

He pushed the door open and went out, hurrying, like someone escaping from a trap.

She wasn’t sure why she followed him. But she did. And when she stepped onto the sidewalk, she felt as if she’d collided with an electric fence. Energy sizzled along her scalp and crawled over her body, just beneath her skin. Even her bones seemed to vibrate. As if it were frantically batting at a bombardment of tennis balls, her tired mind tried to give names to the overwhelming emotions ricocheting inside her head.

Watching…watching…

Waited…searched…so long!

Found you!

Glee!

Victory!

Success! At last!

The only thing she knew for certain was that someone was watching. Watching with riveted attention and avid interest, a focus so intense it felt like a laser beam. Watching Wade.

A few dozen yards down the block, the police detective was getting into his car. She called out to him—a croak, at first, then louder. “Detective Callahan—Wade! Wait—please!”

He turned to look at her across the roof of his car. He was frowning because his heart was beating way faster than it had any reason to, unless he wanted to count having just scared himself silly, coming so close to telling a woman he didn’t know or trust things he’d never told another living soul. Right now half of him wanted to ignore her, jump in his car and get the hell out of there, get back to dealing with things he knew were real, and knew what to do with—like facts and evidence and witnesses. Dead bodies. Those things he understood.

Fortunately the other half reminded him that he’d just told this woman to let him know if she picked up anything more on his killer—or his victims. And even if he wasn’t sure whether he believed in her “gift,” the department had made her part of his team, and it behooved him to listen to what she had to say.

He watched her hurry toward him, breaking into a run the last few yards so that she arrived breathless and pink-cheeked, reminding him once again of a high school cheerleader.

Except, as she came close, he got a good look at her eyes, and against all reason and everything he thought he believed in, his skin began to crawl. He’d seen that look before.

Damn, he wished he didn’t have to ask it. But he did. “What is it? Radar pick up something?”

A pained smile flashed on and off like a light with a bad connection. “It was…someone was here, Wade. Just now. I think he’s gone, though…”

She didn’t look around, as anyone else would have, to see if she could see someone lurking in the vicinity. No—this lady closed her eyes and went still. Looking inside her own head. It gave him cold chills.

“What do you mean, someone was here? This have anything to do with—”

“No—I mean, no, not the case. At least, I don’t think so. But…he was watching you, Wade. It was like…he’d been waiting. Looking for you. For a long time. And now he’s found you. He was so…happy about it. Gleeful.”

Well, hell. What was he supposed to say to that? He ducked his head and ran a hand over the crisp stubble of his short-cropped hair while he thought about it, then lifted it up again when he heard her say softly, “You don’t believe me.”

She was standing with her arms folded, and he got the impression she was shivering, or trying hard not to. Even though she was on the opposite side of the car from him, he felt a thoroughly ridiculous urge to put his arms around her and warm her. Anything to get her to stop.

“Nah, look, it’s not that,” he said, trying to smile when what he felt like doing was grinding his teeth. “It’s just—look, thanks for the heads-up, okay? You said whoever it was is gone now, right?” She nodded, and he was relieved that her eyes were vivid and focused again. Although he had a feeling the image of those eyes would be staying with him for a while.

“Let me know if he comes back,” he said, and he got in his car and headed back downtown.

Pride made him wait until he’d turned the corner before he checked his rearview mirror. Well, hell. He was involved in a murder investigation, after all, and it was a long way from being his first. Not too much of a stretch to think somebody could take a notion to come looking for him with revenge on his mind.

It wasn’t much of a stretch, either, for a so-called psychic looking for a way to convince a skeptic to think of that, too.

* * *

Tierney watched the detective’s car until it had disappeared around the corner at the end of the block, absently rubbing her arms even though the chill that always followed an impression had already faded. She turned and went back into the gallery, frowning uneasily and wondering whether she’d done the wrong thing, telling Detective Callahan about the entity she already thought of as The Watcher. He was already teetering on the edge of disbelief, and passing along an impression so vague and meaningless was bound to only increase his skepticism. Especially since she hadn’t gotten any sense that The Watcher meant any harm.

The Watcher. From the objectivity of ten minutes removed from the experience, she replayed that extrasensory bombardment over again in her mind, searching for any signs of malevolence or danger. She couldn’t recall anything negative in it at all—quite the opposite, in fact. She kept getting that overwhelming sense of success achieved after great effort. Triumph. Intense glee. Profound relief. Joy.

What it reminded her of, she realized, was an image from a television miniseries she’d seen years ago, about a black American man searching for his roots in Africa. She’d never forgotten the look on the man’s face—an actor, of course, but no less emotionally intense, at least for her—when he heard at last the old griot, the verbal historian, recount the familiar story of how his ancestor had been taken by slavers. The man’s incredible, overwhelming joy as he cried out, “I’ve found you, you old African! I’ve found you!”

Yes. It was that kind of feeling. So vivid it shook her, brought tears to her eyes and goose bumps to her skin even now.

Laughing at herself, she dashed the tears from her eyes, rubbed away the goose bumps and went back into the gallery. She walked slowly among the paintings, soaking in their sunlit freshness and tranquility one last time before climbing the stairs to her apartment…and the darkness that was Jeannette.

Ed Francks was on the phone when Wade walked into the squad room. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and muttered, “See the boss,” as he jerked his head in the general direction of the hallway that dog-legged off the main squad room.

Wade nodded, tossed his jacket over the back of his chair and tucked in his shirttails as he headed for the office of the homicide division chief. It was more automatic than necessary; the current chief wasn’t a stickler for spit and polish. The only thing that impressed Nola Hoffman was closing cases.

Nola, being five-ten and a little bit—six feet in the high-heeled pumps she always wore—and carrying more weight than she probably wanted to, was more than impressive enough to fit her title. It didn’t hurt, either, that she had skin the exact color of Hershey’s milk chocolate, a neck about a foot long topped off with a perfectly shaped head that was covered with maybe half an inch of fuzz the color of vanilla ice cream and the face of an Egyptian pharaoh. She was referred to as “Boss” to distinguish her from the head of Special Cases, Allan Styles, who was just about Nola’s direct opposite in every way. Styles was known as “The Chief” to his face; what most of Wade’s fellow homicide cops called him behind his back was considerably less respectful and a whole lot more colorful. Dwight Cutter, Chief of Police of the City of Portland, was never called anything but “Chief Cutter,” both to his face and behind his back.

Under the circumstances, Wade wasn’t surprised to find all three of those individuals gathered in the Homicide Division chief’s office, their faces turned expectantly toward him as he entered. The only wonder to him was that his honor the mayor hadn’t chosen to join them, as well.

“Chief Cutter… Chief Styles… Boss…” Wade said as handshakes and nods were exchanged and appropriate titles acknowledged all around. He then assumed parade-rest stance, since all available chairs in the office had been taken, and arranged his features in an expression he hoped would appear both alert and somber.

“I’ve just been telling Chief Cutter and Chief Styles about our task force,” Nola said, leaning forward to place both forearms on her desk, the center part of which had, in their honor, been swept clean of papers clear down to the blotter. “Detective, can you fill us in on the latest developments?”

Wade managed to get his throat cleared, but Chief Cutter beat him to the actual forming of words. “Understand we had another torture murder last night. What’s this make now, five?”

“Five with roughly the same M.O., yes, sir. Assuming they’re all connected. We haven’t established that they are, not for certain.”

Styles, who’d never been Wade’s biggest fan, said with a superior smirk, “Come on, Callahan, all five victims have been—”

But Cutter’s blunt “Why not?” overrode it.

Wade chose to respond to the chief of police. “There’s no connection between the victims, for one thing. Except gender—all were female. Age-wise, we have a college student, a retiree, a city bus driver and a middle-aged housewife. Now this new one—she’s a widow, three grown kids. All were tortured in approximately the same way. None was sexually assaulted, although they were left naked and hanging by their wrists, and no clothes or IDs have been found.”

“But you have positive IDs on the victims?”

“Yes, sir—missing persons matchups and next-of-kin verification on the first four. The most recent—our widowed mom—had fingerprints on file. Seems she was a docent at the art museum.”

“No suspects, I take it.”

“No, sir. So far, there’s been no physical evidence left at the crime scenes by the killer or killers. None of the victims had any enemies, owed anybody money, took drugs or fooled around with anyone’s husband, girl or boyfriend. Model citizens, all.”

“Hell, sounds like we got ourselves a serial killer to me.” Chief Cutter snorted, fixing his jowly features in a Churchillian scowl. “Looks like I get the honor of breaking the news to the mayor. Just what this city needs—another serial killer. We got the Rose Festival coming up in a couple weeks, the eyes of the country on us—in a good way, for a change. How long’s it been since the last time we had a serial killer? Fifteen years? Back in the nineties, wasn’t it?”

“It’s spring,” Styles said. “Warm weather always brings out the weirdos.”

“Weirdos we got plenty of—always have. Wouldn’t be Portland without ’em. At least they’re not generally homicidal, thank the Lord.” Cutter pushed himself to his feet. Once at eye level with Wade—and with an unmistakable gleam in his eye—the police chief said, “Speaking of weirdos, how’s the newest member of your team working out, Detective?”

Nobody made the mistake of taking that question at face value. Everyone in the room was familiar with Chief Cutter’s habit of setting conversational traps for unwary subordinates, and well aware of from whence the order to involve the psychic had originated.

So it was that Wade addressed an audience perhaps more respectfully attentive than it might otherwise have been. “Ah…well, sir, so far she seems…” He coughed, hoping to gain time for his brain to find a word that wouldn’t get him in trouble with his boss and make him the butt of department humor for the foreseeable future. When the word failed to appear, he started again. “From the crime scene this morning, she did pick up that the, uh, latest victim didn’t know her killer.” He paused while everyone nodded gravely, then continued with an absolutely straight face. “Oh, yeah—and the killer doesn’t like uniforms.”

There was a snuffle of poorly stifled laughter from someone—probably Styles. Nola put one long-boned hand over the lower part of her face and became suddenly interested in a large spill of something on her desk blotter.

Chief Cutter pushed abruptly to his feet and favored each person in the room individually with two seconds of jaw-jutting scowl. If it hadn’t been for the city-wide smoking ban, Wade knew, there would have been a cigar clamped between his teeth. “I expect everyone in this department to give the gal some time. She’s done a good job for other departments, and Lord knows this one, and this city needs all the help it can get.” He took a step toward the door, then jerked around to stab two fingers—holding the invisible cigar between them, of course—at the room in general. “I don’t need to tell you, we need this sicko caught. I want this thing wrapped up before the Rose Festival begins. That clear?”

Amid three mumbled Yes, sirs, the chief of police made his exit.

Tee placed the bowl of thick chicken-and-barley soup in front of her grandmother and the spoon alongside it, then unfolded a dish towel and draped it over her grandmother’s lap. “There you are, Jennie, just the way you like it.”

Jeannette, thankfully in one of her sweet moods, smiled up at her. “That’s very kind of you, dear. Such a lovely lass…my, but you remind me of my daughter. Her name is…” A look of stark distress wiped away her smile.

“Isabella,” Tee said quickly, before the distress could blossom into panic.

The old lady’s face brightened, although her eyes remained vague…unfocused. “Oh—you know my daughter? Are you one of her little friends? I used to know all her friends. Boyfriends, too. She always has boyfriends, my Isabella. Well, she’s such a pretty thing,’ tis no wonder…”

Tee picked up the spoon and gently curled her grandmother’s fingers around it. “Here, Jennie, dear, try the soup. It’s barley—you like barley.”

Jeannette obediently dug into the soup bowl and slurped a noisy spoonful, making humming sounds of approval as she worked it around in her mouth. She swallowed, then gave a trill of musical laughter. It sounded poignantly young. “Izzy always brings her young men home to meet me, you know. She hasn’t The Gift herself—doesn’t like mine much, either, except when it suits her. Like when she wants to know what’s in a boy’s heart. Then she doesn’t mind it, not a bit…” She scooped up another bite of soup, still chuckling to herself.

Tee leaned her chin on her hand as she watched her grandmother attack the bowl of soup with gusto, crooning and mumbling to it as she ate. “I wish you could help me know what’s in this one’s heart, because I sure can’t,” she said, knowing Jeannette wouldn’t really hear her, that she was years away, now. A lifetime away.

“Wade Callahan…that’s his name—the detective I’m working with now. You said he’s lost, Jennie, and I think he is, but only parts of him. He’s like…a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing.” She sighed. “I can’t read him.”

Jeannette paused with the spoon on its downward arc. “I could never read my Tommy, either.”

“Tommy?” Tee felt excitement vibrate through her breastbone. Her grandmother’s voice had taken on a different timbre…a younger, lighter pitch, with a definite Irish brogue. Softly she asked, “Was he your boyfriend, Jennie?”

“Boyfriend? Oh, well, I s’pose he was to begin with, before I married him.” She chuckled. “Tommy was my husband, of course.”

Tee felt her grandmother’s emotions fill her head, warm and sweet, at first, like spring breezes wafting through orchards of apple trees. Then just as quickly they changed to hot, sultry winds, blowing gusts that smelled of passion and storms.

“I never knew you were married,” she said in a wondering voice. She’d always assumed single parenthood was the norm in her family.

“Not for long, I’m afraid,” Jeannette said in the gently wistful manner of one reliving an old, old tragedy. “My Tommy was killed, you see, only weeks after we married, when I was already carrying his daughter. My lovely Isabella—looked just like him, she did, and took after him in other ways, as well. Reckless, he was. Always takin’ risks. Went off to Belfast to fight the British. And I couldna’ stop it…” Her accent seemed to thicken as a tear trickled down her cheek. “I saw. I did. But I wouldna’ believe.”

Tee couldn’t answer. One hand covered her mouth; the other groped blindly for her grandmother’s as waves of inconsolable grief washed over her.

Later, after the effects of the impression had faded, she remembered the words. I saw, but I wouldna’ believe.

And felt a chill of an altogether different kind.

In a motel room on the outskirts of Portland, a private investigator named Holt Kincaid took out his cell phone and punched a number on his speed dial. A woman answered, a voice he knew well. It sounded sleepy.

“Hey, Sam,” he said with momentary qualms of guilt, “did I wake you?”

“Hey, Holt,” his employer’s wife muttered in her mild Georgia drawl. “’S okay. What’s up?”

“Sorry—keep forgetting about the time difference. It’s pretty late there, right?”

“Yeah, but never mind, I’m up now.” Her voice sounded less grumpy and more alert, so he figured she hadn’t missed the burr of excitement in his. “So, give. You wouldn’t be calling this late if you hadn’t found something.”

“Uh, is Cory around? He ought to be the first one to hear this.”

“He’s on assignment. He’ll be checking in, though, so tell me. And, Holt?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t spill it to me this minute, I swear I will send a very large, very muscular—”

“Okay, okay. I’ve found something, all right. Not something, actually—someone.” He paused, surprised to find a constriction in his throat. Damn, but this case had gotten personal. Too personal. He coughed and said, “It’s…Wade. I’ve found Wade.”

There was silence, then a rustling sound, as if his listener had sat down rather abruptly. The voice, barely audible, said, “You…found him? You’re sure? Honest to—”

“Swear to God.” Holt couldn’t hold back elated laughter. “His name’s Callahan, and he’s a cop—yeah, just like Dirty Harry. A homicide detective in Portland, Oregon.”

“Have you talked to him? Does he…”

“No. I’ve been watching him for a couple days—just wanted to be sure before I called you guys. I figured Cory should be the one to…you know, break the news.”

“Yeah.” There was a long exhalation, then a whispered, “My God. I can’t believe you found him. It’s been so long—I was beginning to think—”

“Yeah,” said Holt, “me, too. But this is bound to lead to the others. Wade and the other boy—”

“Matthew.”

“Right. They were adopted by the same couple. I figure he’s got to know where his brother is.”

“Oh, Holt—this is beyond great. It’s…it’s… Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell Cory. We’re going to find them all, I just know it.” Holt wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a break in Sam’s voice before she added, “The little girls, too.”

“They’re not little girls anymore,” he said gruffly. “They’re a couple of grown-up women, now. And they were just babies when it all went down. They’re not going to remember.”

“I know. But still.” Holt heard a sniff. Unmistakable, this time.

“Sammie June, darlin’, are you crying? Samantha? Tough-as-nails charter pilot, never let ’em see you—”

There was a quiet click in his ear and the cell phone went dead.

The ringing telephone woke Tee from a restless early morning slumber. Sweaty and achy, she threw back the tumbled covers and stretched her back, trying to work out some of the stiffness resulting from a poor night’s sleep before picking up the phone. Which, by that time, had activated the answering machine. She listened, yawning, to her embarrassingly chirpy outgoing message, then stiffened, suddenly wide awake, when she heard the impatient voice begin its reply.

She snatched it up, shaking and jangled from a burst of adrenaline. “Wade—Detective Callahan—yes, I’m here. What is—”

The detective’s voice was terse. Flat. “Sorry to wake you. We’ve got another one.”

“Oh—God…”

“And, Miss Doyle?”

“Tee—please.”

“Okay, Miss Tee. What you said about our killer not liking uniforms? Well, looks like he was serious about that, because he just killed a cop. She was one of ours.”

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