Thicker Than Water (22 page)

She flipped the book over once more and opened its front cover to look at the autograph, curious to see what pearls of wisdom a renowned psychic used when inscribing a book to the press.

Then her cell phone bleated, distracting her.

Sighing, she reached into the bag, tugged the cell phone from its pocket and brought it to her ear. “Julie Jones,” she said.

“Julie? It's Melanie Wright, from WKLL in Albany. I got that information you wanted.”

Julie blinked and thought for sure her heart skipped a few beats. She'd spent an hour in her office, making calls, calling in favors, looking for someone in the Albany or Rochester press who would be willing to tell her how Sirona and Tessa had died. She'd all but given up on anyone coming through with the information.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Thanks. I'm glad you called me back. What did you find out?”

“Sharon Brown's death was ruled a suicide. She hanged herself.”

The air seemed to seep from Julie's lungs against her will.

“The funny thing is, I did a little digging on that other death you were asking about. The one in Rochester? My sister works for one of the newspapers out there.”

“And?” Julie asked.

“Same thing,” the reporter told her. “Death by hanging, ruled a suicide.”

“Oh, my God.” The whisper issued from her lips without her permission. Both dead by the same method within such a short period of time? It couldn't be coincidence. God, someone had killed them. Someone had
hanged
them.

“I smell a story here, Ms. Jones. Do you think we could have a serial killer on our hands?”

“No.” She blurted the answer quickly, sharply.

“What's the connection between those two women? I haven't been able to find any, but you seem to—”

“There's no connection.” But there was. The connection was her…and Dawn. “There's no story here. Just leave it alone.”

Julie hung up the phone while the ambitious young newswoman was still asking questions and pressed a hand to her forehead, wishing she'd gone to the police instead of the press. She lowered her head, battling tears. God, they'd been murdered. Both of them.

Her gaze found the open book lying on the desk and the elegant scrawl on the title page.

The darkness seemed to close in around her. Julie ran out of the studio, tripped over a cable, caught herself on a camera, and made it to the door and into the lighter hallway. And still she didn't slow down. She ran as if the devil were on her tail, until damn near colliding with Sean as he stepped out of his own office.

He caught her shoulders, steadying her. “Whoa, whoa, where're you going in such a hurry? You miss me that much already?”

She looked past him, saw Dawn sitting behind MacKenzie's desk, rapidly clicking keys on his computer. Dawn looked up, smiling. “Isn't it great that we get to go to that taping tonight?” she asked. “And there's an extra ticket! Can we take Kayla?”

Julie forced a smile she was far from feeling. “I—I guess.”

“We should grab dinner on the way,” Dawn rushed on. “I'm starved already, and by the time you do the evening broadcast, I'll be gnawing on the desk.”

“Tacos?” MacKenzie asked, grinning at Dawn's dramatic analogy.

“Sounds good to me. Mom?”

Julie blinked from Dawn's hopeful eyes to MacKenzie's probing ones. He saw right through her. He was too damned insightful for his own good—for
her
own good. But includ
ing him in the dinner invitation was a good idea. She needed his help; she had to remember that. And besides, she didn't want to be alone tonight. She was scared, and she knew she had good reason to be. Someone, it seemed, was systematically killing the survivors of the raid on the Young Believers. She and Dawn could be next on the killer's to-do list.

She was terrified.

It would be a very public event, with cameras rolling. With MacKenzie by her side, she should be able to keep Dawn safe.

She mustered up a smile and tried to keep the terror from her face. “Tacos sound great. Maybe Kayla can meet us at the restaurant. Are we taking two cars or one?”

MacKenzie shrugged. “We can drop my car at your place and leave from there in yours. More room. But, uh—I want to drive.”

“You want to drive?”

He exchanged a secret glance with Dawn. “Yeah. Hey, it's only fair. I let Dawn drive my car. So I get to drive yours.”

“Excuse me? The correct answer to that equation is that she has to let you drive her Jeep. Not my Mercedes.”

“From what I understand, your Mercedes will be a lot safer in my hands.”

She shot Dawn a scowl. “You've been spreading that horrible gossip again, haven't you? About what a bad driver I am?”

Dawn laughed. “Gossip? C'mon, Mom. You hold the county record for most orange construction cones destroyed in a single season.”

“I heard the DMV was making her a trophy,” MacKenzie said. “A little orange cone with a sign on it that reads ‘Not A Target.'”

Dawn covered her mouth and kept laughing anyway.

“You two will pay for ganging up on me,” Julie promised. But she felt better. The trembling had stopped, and she wasn't freezing cold anymore. A few minutes basking in the glow of her beautiful Dawn always made her feel better. And verbal duels with MacKenzie tended to have a tonic effect, as well.

“Fine, you can drive,” she told him haughtily. She turned to Dawn. “You call Kayla and see if her dad can bring her to meet us for dinner. Just to keep you from starving to death, we'll head to the taco place right after we wrap, speaking of which…”

She glanced at her watch.

“That's right, we'd better get on it.” MacKenzie put a hand on her shoulder, turned her and hustled her down the hall, calling, “See you in a half hour, Dawnie.”

When they'd gone several feet, he looked at her again. “You don't fool me for a minute, you know.”

She glanced up at him, almost argued, then gave up. She was tired. “I know,” she said.

“You gonna tell me what has you so on edge today?”

She lowered her head. “I haven't decided.”

“But you're gonna let me hang around anyway. What's up with that, Jones?”

She lifted her head, looked him right in the eye. “I'm scared half to death.”

He stopped walking, just looked at her, as if he thought she was kidding and then was shocked that she wasn't. He
should
be shocked, he realized. Julie Jones didn't admit to weakness often. Never, in fact. He was probably as surprised as she was that the first time she did, it would be to him. Her nemesis. Her worst enemy and, right now, her only friend.

S
ean noticed that Dawn deliberately shoved him ahead of her in the line going into the Landmark Theater, so that when they took their seats in the audience, he was sitting between Dawn and her mother, with Kayla on Dawn's other side. Jones was drawn up as tightly as a violin string. Something had happened between the time she'd left the station to pick Dawn up and the time she'd arrived back at work with her daughter in tow. He didn't know what, and he didn't expect her to tell him. She still didn't trust him, and knowing that gnawed at him, though he wasn't entirely sure why. After all, up until very recently, he'd had less than honorable motives in wanting to find out her secrets.

He'd wanted to get something on her. To have something to hold over her, even if he never did anything but tease her with it.

Now, everything had changed. He wanted her to trust him, so that he could find out what was going on, so that he could help her. And Dawn.

He swallowed and shifted his focus elsewhere when his mind started pondering further reasons. Like the cockeyed theory that he'd never really disliked Jones as much as he'd pretended. That he enjoyed fighting with her so much because of the sparks that flew between them when they fought. Positive charge meets negative charge. It was almost like sex.

That little change in his perception of their relationship seemed to have thrown the switch on what had always been a grudging but undeniable physical attraction and turned it into full-blown desire. On his part, at least. He'd been thinking about it ever since that moment in the studio earlier, when he'd damn near kissed her.

But this wasn't the time to be thinking about any of those things.

“I'm so excited,” Dawn said. “This guy is really good.”

“He's phenomenal,” Kayla agreed.

“Have you ever seen his show, Sean?” Dawn asked.

Sean shook his head. “Not all the way through. I watched a couple of taped segments that came with his press kit. Seems to me he's like a TV evangelist of the New Age variety. Does a little channeling, a little healing and talks about God's message. But I have to tell you, kid, I'm a skeptic about this psychic stuff.”

“Yeah? You just wait. He'll convince you.”

Sean gave the girls a doubtful look, then turned to Julie. “How about you, Jones? You believe in this crap?”

“I'm keeping an open mind,” she said. “I did notice there were cameras on us the entire time we stood in line. And I think I saw a microphone or two out there, as well.”

“Ahh, good call. I should have brought up something obscure out there. My dear insane aunt Aggie with one brown eye and one blue, just to see if he'd mention it in here.”

“You have an insane aunt Aggie?” Jones asked.

He frowned at her. “Doesn't everyone?”

She smiled. It was a real smile, this time, full, spontaneous and potent. It hit him where he lived. He'd been missing that smile lately. “You made it up,” she accused.

He wiggled his eyebrows, and they took their seats. Then the lights went down and the crowd hushed. Intro music swelled as the spotlight hit the small stage. Then the star walked out from behind heavy purple curtains and applause filled the place to bursting.

Nathan Z smiled, his shiny bald head gleaming in the spotlights. He pressed his palms flat together and bowed toward each section of seats. He wore white robes and sandals.

Kayla and Dawn were awestruck as they gazed up at him, applauding.

Then he held his hands up for silence. “Thank you all for coming. It means the world to me. This room is just bursting with energy tonight, so let me get straight to work.”

He lowered his head slightly, closed his eyes. His fingers made small, rapid circles against his temples. The audience went so still, Sean thought it was holding its collective breath. Then the guru's hands fell to his sides and his head came up. His piercing eyes opened, and he turned, then pointed.

“I'm coming to this section.” He moved to the edge of the stage and pointed to an area of the audience. “Who has a…dog? Sam His name is Sam. And he's…no, she. A female dog named Sam. She's not well. Does this make sense to anyone?”

A man raised his hand.

“Come up on the stage with me, sir.”

Nodding, the audience member hurried onto the stage. Nathan Z clasped the man's hand in both of his own, nodding, sympathy in his eyes. “You have a female dog named Sam, and you're worried about her health, is that right?”

The man, a skinny fellow of sixtysomething with hair the color of orange sherbet, nodded. “She's not acting right. Not eating, whining all the time.”

“She's in a lot of pain,” Z told the man. “You need to get her to the vet. She's a golden retriever, isn't she?”

The older man's eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Z smiled, his face warm. “She has a ragged old teddy bear she's chewed almost to pieces, but you can't throw it away.”

“That's right.”

“Why haven't you taken her to the vet?”

The old man lowered his head. “I guess—I'm afraid they'll tell me it's something fatal. Or that she has to be put down. She's old, you know.”

“I know,” Z said. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “It's not. It's inflammation in her joints. Arthritis. It hurts to move, to put weight on her legs. The cooler weather is making it worse. She can't eat because she's in so much pain.”

The man lifted his head. “Will the vet be able to help her?”

“Yes. She has…she has several good years left.”

The old man flung his arms around Z and hugged him hard. “Thank you. I can't thank you enough.”

“You're welcome,” Z said, smiling, blinking his eyes as if they were damp while the man made his way back toward the audience.

Dawn leaned closer. “I told you he was awesome.”

Sean nodded, trying to look suitably impressed. But the reporter in him was itching to get behind this guy's veneer, find out what really made him tick. Did they poll the audience when they sold them the tickets, pick a few and interview them ahead of time, have microphones planted in the lobby, or did they just have plants scattered throughout the crowd?

Or was the guy for real? He looked toward Jones to ask what she thought, but she appeared mesmerized by the man on the stage.

The same thing went on for damn near the full hour, with Z picking people out of the crowd and telling them details about their lives that he shouldn't know. Couldn't possibly know, the subjects exclaimed again and again. There were tears, relief. If the people weren't plants, then this guy was helping them. Making them feel better. Giving them closure and positive, logical advice. He never told them to sell all their possessions and move to Tibet, so that was good.

Finally the guru declared that he had finished with his readings and would now proceed on to today's message for all of mankind. He moved to a large, bowl-shaped wicker chair with a thick cushion lining it, which stagehands had brought out moments earlier. He sat down in it, folding his legs and his robes beneath him, and let his head fall limply to his chest. For several tense moments he sat there like that, breathing deeply, and the silence hung in the air. No one in the audience made a peep. Not a whisper. Once again, they almost seemed to be holding their breath.

God, this guy had them enthralled.

When Z's head came up again, his eyes were so intense that Sean wondered if he'd managed to slip some kind of lumines
cent contacts in while no one was looking. They nearly glowed.

“I am a prophet,” he said. His voice was different now, not the soft soothing, nondescript one he'd had before. But rich, full, booming with power and, interestingly, bearing a slightly Southern accent. “I am an exalted soul, so enlightened that I am not safe on the physical plane, for like all exalted souls before me, like Jesus and John and Galileo and Joan of Arc, I will be misunderstood, persecuted…and killed.”

“Ow,” Sean muttered, glancing down at the pain in his lower arm, then frowning. Jones was clutching his forearm so hard her nails were digging into his flesh. If she squeezed any harder, she would draw blood.

“For this reason, I must share my message with you now, while I can. This is what you need to know to achieve oneness, wholeness and harmony in your lives. In the past, humans offered sacrifice to their gods in order to receive blessin's. They slaughtered cattle, hosses, lambs, then offered them up on the pyre. But all you need to do is to believe in me, believe in my words. They are the same words, no matter what system of belief you hold dear. No man cometh unto the father except by me, for he who believeth in me shall not perish, but have everlastin' life. I am the way, the truth and the light. So sayeth the Lord.”

He paused to let that sink in.

Sean leaned close to Julie. “Am I dreaming here, or did he just imply that he was Jesus Christ?”

She didn't answer, so he glanced sideways at her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and riveted to the man on the stage. She was shaking, physically shaking. He thought she was going to explode out of her seat in a moment.

“Jones?” he whispered. “Hey, what is it?”

She shook her head. “He's done. Let's get the girls out of here.”

The man had stopped speaking, and the audience applauded wildly.

“You're not looking so hot right now, Jones,” Sean said. “Tell you what. I'll go get the car, since we parked clear at the other end of the lot. I'll pick you three up at the door, all right?”

He started to rise. Jones closed her hand over his on the armrest none too gently. “Take the girls with you.”

He frowned at her. Her words fell like hailstones. Cold, quick, hard. He searched her face for an explanation.

She turned to Dawn. “You and Kayla go with Sean. I just need to find a rest room. I'll meet you out front.”

“Sure, Mom. Don't get lost on us.” Dawn got up, tugging Kayla with her.

Sean leaned closer to Jones. “What the hell is it?” he whispered.

“Just…watch them, Sean. Don't let Dawn out of your sight. I need a few minutes.”

He held her eyes, but she wasn't giving away a thing. “If you think I'm leaving you alone…”

“She's in danger, Sean. Please do this for me.”

His stomach knotted, but he gave in. “All right. But if you're not in the car in five minutes—”

“Give me ten.”

With a nod, he turned and headed up the aisle with Dawn and Kayla on either side of him.

* * *

Julie watched them go until the rest of the audience rose to begin filing out of the studio, blocking her view. Then she
walked against the flow of traffic, down and closer to the stage. She had already picked out the likeliest way to get backstage, a doorway to the left of those thick curtains, and she headed toward it, only to have a heavy man wearing a tight-fitting “Z” T-shirt and a radio headset step into her path.

“No one's allowed back there, miss.”

She conjured a smile, met his eyes, watched the recognition change his expression.

“Wait a minute, aren't you…?”

“Julie Jones, Channel Four News,” she said, extending a hand. He took it, shook it warmly. “Mr. Z is going to be interviewed at our station soon. He gave us the tickets tonight, in fact, and I have a few background questions for him in order to prepare for the segment. Do you think he'll see me?”

“I'll find out for you, Ms. Jones. Just wait right here.”

She waited while he walked a few steps away and spoke into his headset. Then he nodded and came back to her. “Go on back, Ms. Jones. It's the first door on the left.”

“Thank you.” He stepped aside, opening the stage door for her. She heard it close behind her again as soon as she moved through. The hall was long, but the first door on the left loomed all too soon. It was closed. No star on the door, no name plaque.

She was shaking, deathly cold, when she lifted her fist, paused, clenched her jaw and rapped on the door.

“Come.”

She wrapped her hand around the doorknob. She didn't want to do this, to face this thing head-on. But she thought of Dawnie, and knew she had to. She twisted the knob and pushed the door open; it felt as if she were opening a long-sealed crypt instead.

He sat at a mirrored dressing table, wiping his face with a soft cloth. He didn't turn around, just met her eyes in the mirror.

She held his gaze, knew now why his photo had stirred that odd feeling of recognition in her belly. It was the smile and the dimple in his right cheek. Dawn had that dimple. Dawn had that smile.

“I know who you are,” she said.

He closed his eyes briefly. “Close the door, Jewel. This isn't a conversation we need others to overhear.”

If she closed the door, what was to stop him from killing her? she wondered. Just the way he'd probably killed Sirona and Tessa. But she had to do this. She had to face him. For Dawn. She closed the door and went a few degrees colder.