The Night Island

CHAPTER ONE

There would be nightmares again tonight.

She'd always had a knack for finding misplaced keys, glasses, and pets. She was fine with that. But her new psychic ability for tracking down the bodies of those who had died by violence was not only depressing but frequently led to anxiety attacks and disturbing dreams.

Why couldn't it have been a talent for something more positive-like, say, picking winning lottery numbers? Why did it have to be dead bodies?

Talia March clenched the dead man's gold cuff link in one hand, gathered her nerve, and flattened her other hand against the metal side of the industrial-sized trash bin. She was braced mentally and physically, her core Pilates-tight; nevertheless, the jolt of psychic lightning rattled her nerves and her senses. In the past few months she had learned that the energy laid down by violence always came as a shock.

She had finally figured out that what she detected with her new ability was the psychic stain of the killer's emotions-or lack thereof-and the pain and fear of the victim. It made for a toxic brew that seeped into the crime scene and, to her, was as obvious as a pool of blood.

She was aware of a weak frisson emanating from the cuff link. The owner was dead but the item that he had worn frequently in life was still infused with the hollow echo of his vibe.

She could work with almost any object that had belonged to the missing or the deceased, but over the course of the past several months she had learned that some materials absorbed and reflected paranormal energy more efficiently than others. Gold was a particularly strong conductor, almost as good as crystal.

"Shit," she whispered. She took a quick step back. "He's in there."

Roger Gossard, the head of Gossard Consulting, a crime scene consulting company, studied the trash bin with a pained expression. "Are you sure?"

"You hired me for my best guess," she said. "This is it."

Roger grunted but he did not argue or demand more details. He knew better than to ask her to explain her conclusion. He looked at the unhappy man wearing a security guard uniform emblazoned with the logo of the company that controlled the loading dock.

"Okay if we take a look?" Roger said. "We need to find out for sure if there's a body inside before we call the police."

The security guard shrugged. "Boss says I'm supposed to cooperate but I'm telling you right now I'm not going into that bin to look for a dead body. You're on your own."

"Right." Roger switched his attention to the two members of his team who were waiting for instructions. "Bailey and Thomas, take a look. We need to make sure."

Grim but resigned, the pair pulled on heavy gloves, climbed into the bin, and went to work sorting through the trash generated by the several hundred office workers employed in the building.

Talia retreated to the front of the loading dock and contemplated the view of the alley. The rain was coming down in the steady way that was typical of Seattle in the late fall. The heavy skies indicated the weather was not going to change anytime soon. The Big Gray was just getting started.

In the past she had been comfortable with the drama of the city's dark season. But the night she had lost to amnesia had changed a lot of things. Now she was aware of a relentless sense of urgency simmering just beneath the surface, a sensation that was intensified by the late dawns and early twilights.

She tuned out the noise of the trash bin excavation process and opened her phone. There was no new text from her mysterious informant. She was starting to lose hope. Maybe she had been conned. It was a discouraging thought because the lead had appeared so promising.

"Looks like we found Clayton, boss," Bailey called. "Wrapped in plastic sheeting. Not a pretty sight."

The security guard backed away from the trash bin as if it was radioactive.

"That's far enough," Roger said. "Don't touch anything else. I'll call Seaton and let him know. He'll be thrilled. It's no longer a missing persons case. He's got a genuine homicide on his hands."

"No question about that," Thomas muttered. "Looks like someone used a hammer on him."

Roger took out his phone and made the call. When he was finished he walked toward Talia, watching her as if she was a member of the Addams family. This wasn't the first case she had worked on for him and she knew what was coming next. He no longer needed her. She was now a problem. He wanted her gone before the police detective arrived.

Roger was good-looking, smart, well-dressed, and ambitious. Everything about him, from his expensive business suit to his salon-styled hair, projected the image of a man on the fast track to success. He made no secret of his goal. He was headed for the top of the psychological forensics field, building a reputation as a consultant who brought state-of-the-art technology and the latest scientific theories to the business of crime solving. The very last thing he wanted was for his clients to find out that he occasionally employed a psychic.

He stopped in front of her. "You were right," he said quietly. "Ray Clayton did not walk out on his wife and disappear. She murdered him with the help of her lover."

"You'll have to prove that last part."

"It's not my problem. It's up to Seaton to close the case. But now that we found the body for him that shouldn't be too difficult. There will be a lot of evidence."

"There always is on the body."

Roger lowered his voice a little more. "You can go now."

She gave him an icy smile. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hang around until the cops get here. We all know Seaton would have a few questions if he saw me. It wouldn't do for Gossard Consulting to admit that they brought in a psychic to find the missing body. Bad for the brand."

Roger winced and glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "Keep your voice down. I told you, Bailey and Thomas think you're a forensic psychologist who figured out the most likely dump site after studying my profile of the wife."

"I won't blow your cover. A job is a job and I need the money." Talia looked at the trash bin and then quickly averted her gaze. "Besides, it's not like I want to be here when they retrieve the body."

Roger frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Absolutely." Well, except for an incipient anxiety attack and the knowledge that the night ahead will be very long and very dark. What the hell. Not my first dead body. I'm a professional. Don't try this at home. "I'll ride off into the sunset now."

"Don't forget to send your bill."

"Oh, I won't." She realized she was still holding the gold cuff link. She unclenched her fingers and held out her hand. "You can have this. I won't need it anymore."

"Right." Roger picked up the cuff link and slipped it into a pocket.

She went down the loading dock steps, pulled up the hood of her jacket, and walked toward the far end of the alley. The relentless howl of a siren in the distance announced the approaching police vehicle. The big SUV roared into the alley just as she was crossing the street. She did not look back.

It was a good thing that Roger had not asked for an explanation of how she had located the body of Ray Clayton, because she did not understand it herself. She was not sure she wanted to comprehend it. Her new ability was unwelcome on so many levels. She had not been forced to look at the face of the dead man in the trash bin today, but that would not protect her from the psychic fallout.

Tonight there would be nightmares.

CHAPTER TWO

Come any closer and I'll kill her," Martin Pilcher yelled.

Luke Rand opened his senses to the nightmarish currents of energy that shivered through Pilcher's threats. It didn't take any psychic talent to figure out that the man was totally unhinged.

Pilcher was in the doorway of the small, shadowed house. He tightened his arm around his wife's throat and put the barrel of the pistol against her head.

"I'm not fucking around here," he screamed.

"He's going to do it," Luke said quietly. "We're talking a couple of minutes at the most before he pulls the trigger."

"Shit." Sam Hobbs's expression was grim but resigned. "I'll signal Wilson to take the shot."

"It won't work," Luke said. "Wilson can't get a clear shot. Best case is the bullet punches through Pilcher and strikes the wife."

"Don't you think I know that?" Hobbs's jaw tightened. "I don't have a choice. We don't have time for any more negotiation."

"Let me try before you give the order to Wilson."

Hobbs hesitated. "Okay, you've got one minute."

"Understood," Luke said.

He and Hobbs were standing behind one of the three police vehicles parked in the front yard of the house. Katy Pilcher had tried to hide in the rural town in Northern California after obtaining a restraining order that was supposed to keep her stalker husband from contacting her. But Pilcher had tracked her down. Katy had managed to dial 911 just as Pilcher broke in through a window.

When the police arrived on the scene it became a hostage situation. Now it was about to mutate into a murder-suicide.

So much for the rural community's promise of safety, Luke thought. Lesson learned. Katy Pilcher wasn't the only one who had chosen the small, remote town as a hideout.

In hindsight, it had been a mistake to accept Hobbs's invitation to play poker on Friday nights, but it had seemed like a small risk. Unfortunately, over cards and whiskey, Luke had mentioned that he had done some hostage negotiation. Now he was paying for that slip of the tongue. Fifteen minutes ago Hobbs had called, asking for assistance at the scene of a crime in progress.

Luke focused on the man in the doorway. "No one here is going to make any moves, Mr. Pilcher. What do you need?"

On the surface, the words sounded calm and reassuring, but they formed an invisible Trojan horse carrying the currents of a psychic trap.

"I need you and everyone else to leave us alone," Pilcher shouted. "This is none of your fucking business. She's my wife."

Luke ignored Katy's panic-stricken face. He had the fix now. He concentrated on the dangerously unstable frequencies of her husband's aura.

"All right, Mr. Pilcher," he said, infusing the words with the counterpoint currents that would send Pilcher's vibe into a wildly oscillating mode. "We understand this is a private matter. Give us a little time to clear out of here."

Hobbs scowled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"You've got thirty seconds," Pilcher screamed. "If you're not gone, I'll-"

He went silent, his mouth open, his eyes wide as he stared at something only he could see.

"Shit," Hobbs whispered. "What's going on?"

Luke did not reply. He had the focus. He continued talking to Pilcher.

"It's over, Pilcher," he said, continuing to lace his words with the frequencies that would suppress the erratic wavelengths of the other man's aura. "You don't want to kill your wife."

"Stop," Pilcher said. But he sounded dazed and disoriented. "What are you doing?"

"The situation has changed," Luke said. "Let Katy go. You don't need her."

Pilcher hauled Katy deeper into the house and away from the door. Now neither could be seen.

"You don't want to hurt Katy," Luke called, forcing as much energy into the words as he could manage. He was still learning the limits of his new talent. "There will be nothing but pain if you hurt her. More pain than you have ever known-"

The muffled roar of a gunshot inside the house reverberated through the woods.

"Fuck," Hobbs muttered. He raised his hand to signal the officers to move in.

"Don't shoot," Katy Pilcher screamed from the shadows. "Please. It's me. I think my husband is dead."

"Toss the gun outside, Ms. Pilcher," Hobbs ordered.

The pistol sailed through the doorway and landed on the front steps.

"Come out with your hands up," Hobbs ordered.

Katy Pilcher emerged. She came down the steps, moving awkwardly. An officer intercepted her and pulled her to the side of the house, out of the line of fire.

But there were no more shots.

A deep silence emanated from inside the house. The officer who had taken Katy to safety shouted from his position on the side of the structure.

"She says Pilcher had some kind of seizure. He collapsed. She grabbed the pistol and shot him because she was afraid he would recover and kill her."

Hobbs looked at the shocked woman. "Are there any more guns in the house, Ms. Pilcher?"

"No," she said. "I swear it. I thought about getting one to protect myself but I didn't. I just hoped he would never find me."

She started to cry.

Hobbs gave the orders to secure the house and moved forward. Luke watched the officer escort Katy Pilcher to a patrol vehicle. She half collapsed on the rear seat and put her face into her hands.

Luke walked to the vehicle, flattened a palm on the roof, and leaned in a little. He opened his senses, got the focus, and infused a calming note into his voice.

"Are you hurt, Ms. Pilcher?" he asked.

She raised her head, lowered her hands, and looked at him with stricken eyes. "He was going to kill me this time. Not just beat me like he did before. He was really going to kill me."

Luke reflected on the terrible energy in Pilcher's voice. "I know."

"Is he dead?" Katy whispered. "I hope he's dead. I don't care if I go to jail so long as he's dead."

Hobbs emerged from the house. He saw Luke and Katy and came toward them.

Katy wrapped her arms around her midsection and rocked. "Martin wouldn't have stopped. I know him. He would not have stopped. Ever."

Hobbs reached the vehicle. He gave Luke an unreadable look and then he turned to Katy.

"Your husband is dead, Ms. Pilcher," he said.

Katy closed her eyes. "Good. Will I go to jail?"

"No," Hobbs said. "It was a clear case of self-defense as far as I'm concerned, and I'm the one who makes that call in this town. But I need you to tell me exactly what happened in there."

"I'm not sure," Katy admitted. "I think he had a stroke or a seizure. Maybe a heart attack. He just seemed to forget that I was there. He dropped the gun and sank to his knees, clutching at his chest. I grabbed the gun and pulled the trigger."