A Deadly Web (7 page)

Shadows. Misshapen, sliding away when he tried to focus on them. Somehow alien, unknowable. Moving all around him, the faint rustling sounds they made closer than the whispers.

Unthreatening at first. He had the odd idea that they were talking among themselves, discussing . . . him.

Weighing him somehow.

Was he valuable enough?

Was he ready?

Whatever their conclusions, Jeffrey felt, sensed, them coming closer. Closer. Reaching out for him.

Almost touching him.

He had no idea what it meant, but an almost primal fear sliced through him suddenly, as sharp and cold as a knife, and he fought to escape the shadows, the vision.

Don’t let them touch you.

Don’t let them have you.

He fought as hard as he could, and . . .

He almost got away.

Almost.

He could feel it, like surfacing in a pool and sensing the warmth of sunlight on his face, beginning to open his eyes to brightness. But then, beneath the surface, something caught at him. Tugged. Dragged him back down into the dark water.

Nobody heard his scream.

Nobody that mattered.

Days later, when his concerned boss asked the building super to check on him, his apartment was deserted. His clothing and personal belongings gone, including the boxes he hadn’t even had time to unpack. The apartment keys left on the kitchen counter.

Nobody was really surprised that he had left. Nobody in Atlanta had known him very well, but the rumors had circulated, and it seemed reasonable to believe he had just moved again, to escape the people who had left desperate notes and pleas stuck to his door in a multicolored sea of Post-its.

To escape his creepy abilities, maybe.

In any case, Jeffrey Bell was gone.

And no one ever saw him again.

—

Tasha spent another mostly sleepless night after the incident with the mirror. She had wiped the words away with a towel, convincing herself that the men who had been there the previous night had somehow left the message for her, a message that would only appear later, when she showered and steamed up the room.

It didn’t help.

Who were they? Why were they after her?

Was
it because she was psychic? And, if so, why?

That alien voice in her head had said “we” had more questions than answers about “them.”

But how could that be? Tasha had never believed in conspiracies, firmly of the opinion that it just wasn’t human nature to keep any secret for long. By her reckoning, only some military or intelligence agency secrets were kept quiet for years, decades.

Except . . . Now that she was thinking about it, she supposed she couldn’t say with certainty that no people, no organization, could keep a secret indefinitely.

No way to prove a negative.

So maybe there
were
secrets out there. Maybe there were a lot of them. But a secret organization kidnapping or killing psychics for no discernible reason?

And whose activities most of the people around them never even noticed?

That didn’t just seem unlikely; it seemed absurd.
Today’s mainstream media was an around-the-clock business hungry for headlines on dozens if not hundreds of channels and newspapers and magazines. And when you added to that all the Internet and social media, the websites, the blogs, the tweets and Facebook pages,
and
the fact that virtually nothing could happen without someone capturing it on a video camera or cell camera and posting it on YouTube or Instagram . . .

Well, nothing could happen unseen in the United States, at least.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering if that was why, although she felt watched almost all the time now, she only really felt
threatened
once it got dark. Did “they” move at night, in the middle of the night, largely to avoid attention?

Made sense—if anything in all this made sense.

Though that didn’t, of course, explain how they were able to gain access to her building, her apartment, when it was so well guarded.

Not that Tasha had asked building security any questions or asked to see the security footage from that night. She hadn’t asked them, and didn’t know
why
she hadn’t asked them, except . . .

She really didn’t know who to trust.

So Tasha tossed and turned most of the night, napping more than sleeping, and felt both unrested and on edge when she pulled herself from bed around eight that Sunday morning.

On past lazy Sundays, she had often taken a book to the park, but she wasn’t sure if she could even concentrate
long enough to sit down and read. She did, however, want her usual morning coffee, so as soon as she was up and dressed, she made her way out and through the typical Sunday traffic and foot traffic, which was a bit thin as usual this early but would pick up later in the day, after church.

She went to her usual place at the coffee shop and placed her usual order. The Sunday morning customers sitting outside were reading newspapers or talking on their cell phones, or texting, or whatever. Preoccupied with their own lives.

Normal.

Tasha wished that reassured her.

It didn’t.

Her order came. She sipped coffee, picked at a very large muffin, and wished she’d thought to get a newspaper or bring one of her books to at least pretend to read. She’d fit in better with the others.

A folded newspaper landed on the table near her elbow and a man sat down across from her.

Oddly enough, though he was big and dark and a total stranger, Tasha felt no threat from him.

“What—”

“Sorry this is so sudden.” His voice was deep, calm, pleasant. “We’ve never really figured out the best way to make contact. You all tend to be wary at least, sometimes scared. So all we really know for sure is never to come to you in the night, the darkness. Because that’s when the goon squad usually shows up.”

Tasha sat very still, watching him as he sipped a large coffee she was willing to bet was just black, nothing fancy.

He had the sharpest eyes she’d ever seen, eyes that seemed to see her with uncomfortable clarity. And as lazily comfortable as he looked slumped down in his seat, as unthreatening, she could also see that he had to be physically powerful. Very powerful.

“Your name is Tasha Solomon. My name is John Brodie. And I’ve been sent to help you. To protect you.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said slowly.

Are you the voice I’ve had in my head?

No answer to that.

“Yes, you can,” he said matter-of-factly. “Training, good instincts, the ability to think on your feet and make good choices. You’ve chosen a building with outstanding security, and you take care never to be alone unless you’re securely locked inside your condo.”

“Have you been watching me?” she demanded.

He answered readily, if inexplicably. “Yes, for the last couple of days, but I’m not the one you felt watching you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not psychic. And because psychics generally don’t pick up on me unless I let them. And because you know very well I’m no threat to you.”

“How would I know that?”

“You feel it. You always feel when you’re being watched, when there’s a threat nearby. And sometimes, I’m guessing, there’s an . . . alien voice in your mind that scares you. Something you know doesn’t belong to you. Something that isn’t natural.”

“So that’s common among the psychics you’ve found?” Tasha said, admitting nothing.

“Not all, but some.”

“Who does that voice belong to?”

“We aren’t sure. About that inner voice that feels unnatural to you psychics. Though sometimes we try to make contact telepathically, and I’m told that inner voice feels entirely different to you. I’m not sure just how.”

“You aren’t sure of much, are you?”

Brodie didn’t take offense. “Unfortunately, no.”

“So why do I need you?” She was still speaking slowly, studying him, still conscious of no threat from him. And still feeling relatively safe with people all around them.

“Because the other side wants you. Badly. And unless you have a better idea of just what’s going on and what you’re up against, the best training and instincts in the world can’t keep you safe.” He paused, then added deliberately, “Just like the arguably best security in your building couldn’t keep them out when they wanted in.”

—

Bishop emerged from the bedroom of the small apartment and offered a grim shake of his head when Miranda lifted her brows questioningly.

“No sign of Katie at all,” he said. “No sign anyone’s lived here. No books on the shelves, nothing personal on the walls, all the closets and drawers empty. It’s clear the apartment super has this place ready for a new tenant but hasn’t rented it yet.”

“It’s been recently cleaned,” Miranda offered. It was her turn to frown. “Odd, though.”

“What?”

“Well, cleaning services usually leave a place smelling of lemon or pine or something to signal to anyone coming in that it’s been recently cleaned. I don’t smell that. I
feel
the place is clean, but it isn’t because of a scent. Not, at least, a scent I recognize.”

With a sigh, Bishop said, “Right now, I’m wishing one of us were either clairvoyant or had some psychometric ability.”

“Spider senses?”

“You know as well as I do they’re difficult to use at full strength when we have our connection closed down. And I’ve never been especially good at picking up an energy signature except from a person. I even tried touching Katie’s bed, but I’m almost positive the bed in that room is brand-new. Or at least the mattress is.”

“They think of everything.”

“Apparently. Her boss says she resigned by letter, this apartment is empty of any sign she ever lived here; the keys were left on the kitchen counter, all utilities paid up—and she didn’t ask for her security deposit. Even her car has vanished. Probably to a chop shop, its parts being shipped all over the country by now.”

“You think they work that fast?”

“I think . . . by now they’re a well-oiled machine when it comes to disappearing people. And all without making the authorities the least bit suspicious.”

Miranda brooded for a moment, her electric blue eyes tracking slowly around the living room of the small apartment. “Always psychics, and almost all of them living alone. They really don’t take people with family, do they?”

“Usually, no. There are a few cases I turned up where an entire family died in a house fire or car accident—including a psychic. Or a body made to resemble that psychic well enough to raise no question of identity.”

“But cases like that are rare.”

“Extremely rare. I don’t know what Brodie and his people have turned up, but I’ve been tracking psychics long enough to feel pretty sure that most of those who disappear have no family or significant other to worry and pester the police. Though there often is a recent or fairly recent breakup of a marriage, engagement, or romantic relationship.”

“Being psychic can be hard on relationships,” Miranda noted wryly. “We’ve seen that play out more than once. Especially if only one of a couple has abilities.”

“That’s certainly true. And in most of the breakups where I could find a cause, it was easily traced back to a freaked-out significant other. Some were recent enough that they noticed someone they’d once loved had gone missing, but others just seemed to accept whatever the official determination ended up being. Assuming a report was even filed, there are virtually no investigations into the disappearances.”

“Didn’t you say Katie had recently broken up with a fiancé?”

“Yeah. She’s not a born psychic; her telekinetic abilities were apparently triggered when she was thrown from a horse and suffered a head injury just about two years ago. She struggled to control what she could do, and it was a real struggle for her. I gather the fiancé more or less
freaked out during an episode in which Katie lost her temper and most of the pictures in the room went flying off the walls. The fiancé left half his stuff behind when he packed up and left, she told me, he was in such a hurry to just get away from her.”

Miranda shook her head. “That poor girl. We could have helped her.”

“I tried to convince her of that. But it was still too new to her, something she had to deny existed.”

“And that made her vulnerable to them.”

“If they’ve found as few telekinetics as we have, a couple of bitter entries about psycho
supposedly
psychic girlfriends on Facebook would have alerted them to what she could do.”

“The fiancé, I gather?”

“Trying to hide the fact that anything paranormal had actually happened. Claimed she rigged the room just to scare the shit out of him so he’d leave.”

Dryly, Miranda said, “There are easier ways to break up.”

“Oh, yeah. But everything has to be dramatic these days, especially on social media and among certain age groups. And way too many people, especially young people, share way too much personal information online with strangers.” Bishop shook his head. “Although it does help us. We have programs running to flag certain words and phrases used in social media, and people to monitor and check them out; this enemy Brodie has described has to have the same kind of arrangement or something very like it, especially to be able to move this fast.”