Touch of Betrayal, A (5 page)

Fingers won. I wanted privacy to do my sleuthing, and Nameless or Pierce could wander through the door any minute looking for more coffee or food. Maybe they had some of those microwaveable meal packs in the galley. Surely neither of them was going to cook.

First step: explore the kitchen area. Hopefully, I’d learn more about the DB who used to be a living, breathing spy until she set foot on my property and started collecting flora specimens. Like Millie had been, according to my earlier ESP images.

Heading back to the galley with new purpose, I clenched and flexed my fingers rhythmically. A bit of warm-up for the task ahead. A systematic approach would ensure I didn’t miss anything important. The rear wall of the kitchen was an emergency exit, just like in a commercial plane. I kept my touch light, because I didn’t want to accidently bump into anything that might set off an alarm.

Images of Nameless flashed through my fingertips, checking and re-checking the lock system. That was good news, unless there had been a glitch and he wanted to be sure it worked right. At least I was reassured that it would open should I have the opportunity to exit galley-door-left.

I moved to the above-counter cupboards, running my hands over the outer surfaces, then inside. A lot of pictures showed up, but most of them were blurry and didn’t hold enough promise for me to try and push deeper into the energy—until I touched the microwave. I bumped into a private moment between Pierce and the female spy, before she became a corpse, of course.

It was a kiss. Only not like the ones he used to share with me before Mitch proposed. No, this was warm, more than friendly, but it wasn’t hot. It was nice. When Pierce had kissed me—way back when—I’d never have described it with a mundane word like nice. Toe-curling, heart-thumping, how-fast-can-I-get-your-clothes-off would have been a more accurate description—not that I ever did so much as unbutton his shirt, much less jump his bones. There had always been Mitch, and he came first. He was my rock, and the safe home for my heart to give and accept love. If I hadn’t fallen for Mitch first, well, things might have been different, but I’d never know for sure. And that was…okay.

So, what was with this kiss between Pierce and the woman who’d been stalking my property? Friendship? Respect? Lust? Yeah, that fit. And his eyes had darkened with sadness and resignation when I told him who the DB was. And underneath, there was a flash of temper that burned hot.

I had an irrational dislike of this woman with the dimples, and not just because she turned up dead on my property. I wrapped my arms around myself and ran a video of my stored images. Tripping on her hand had been a shock, but under that I was sad. When she stalked my gardens and took samples of the plants, that’s when my anger flared. Okay. Not irrational, then. She had been on my property, and was basically stealing. Yeah. That didn’t sit well with me at all.

I finished checking out the galley without discovering any more interesting revelations. Working my way through the cabin area, I skimmed my fingers over the surfaces of the chairs and tables, but there were only faded images, nothing to sink my spidey senses into. Until I faced a closed door at the rear of the cabin, and wrapped my hand around the doorknob.

I’d prepared. Figured it was probably a bedroom, and there might be some x-rated pics of Pierce and Miz Stalker. Just friends or not, the man came with hefty dose of testosterone and magically skilled hands. Plus they were stuck together, forty-two thousand feet in the air, in a contained space without much to do, large screen television aside. And didn’t super-spies live on the edge, not knowing when that laser beam would seek them out and shine the red dot of death on their foreheads? Or chest? Whatever, it was a prime scenario for some steamy sex.

But the images weren’t of either Pierce or Miz Stalker. I jerked my hand away from the doorknob, dragged in a shaky breath, and stared at my fingertips.

Clear your mind, Everly. Maybe your ESP is broken. It could happen. Sort of like when it disappeared ’cause you were all emotional and didn’t want to see stuff. Give it a chance to fix itself.

I clenched my fists, pushing them hard against my abdomen. One breath. Two. Time to give it another shot. And damn, but the same image popped up, clear and undeniable.
A second shock wave rattled my bones. Millie? Seriously?

She’d opened the door with an expectant smile on her face. A trickle of anxiety crept along my spine, and trapped the breath in my lungs. Nope. I hadn’t been ready for that one. There’d be answers inside, so why did I hesitate? Because I’d never really snooped into Millie and Harlan’s life before, and my muscles softened, refusing to do my bidding. They’d been married forever but never seemed to age. And they’d always been there during my childhood, quiet, barely taking up space. Still, I counted on them to fill the gaps my parents left when they’d had to leave me and disappear into foreign lands, sometimes for weeks at a time. Millie and Harlan were my soft spot. Like a baby’s first giggle, or when a puppy rubbed its nose in my neck and made those adorable snorting noises. Places I didn’t want to desecrate with my snooping.

I shook my head, tossing the touchy-feely emotions aside. If there was any hope of finding them, I had to know what went on in that bedroom. Tawdry. And I’m not a peeping Thomasina. Sure, I like to satisfy my curiosity more than most, but peering into the love life of people I respected? Not my thing, and this situation was potentially loaded with way too much information.

She could be planning on using the bedroom for nothing more than a nap, Everly.

Not with that smile, she wasn’t.

Oh, damn. I was having a conversation with myself. Time to put on my big girl panties and woman up to the task at hand.

I stepped into the bedroom.

A hint of jasmine clung to the air. I inhaled, drinking in the peacefulness of it before I drifted into my memories. When I spent the weekend at my childhood home, Millie often had a huge bouquet of jasmine on the coffee table and welcomed me with a hug. Harlan had grown jasmine in the garden just for her, and the memories were vivid enough that I smiled, clutching at them. The need to find Millie and Harlan, to keep them safe, pushed me into the bedroom.

And then the walls started talking to me.

A shiver took over my muscles, and panic had me quick-stepping back. Wall-talking hadn’t happened to me for more than a year. Not since I’d been checking out the chapel at the Hawaiian Hilton for Annie’s wedding. Not since visiting my grandmother’s homestead and discovering the images she’d left for me.

But in both of those instances, I’d touched the walls. It had been my decision to hear what they had to share, and I’d
asked
for information.

Here, in this flying penthouse, I hadn’t asked for anything, and I didn’t like the walls taking over my mind one bit. That hadn’t happened since the very first time, when Annie and I had broken into a murder victim’s house. Back when I first met Mitch, when his friend Tony had been killed.

A chill blossomed behind my breastbone. Fear knotted, leaving me raw and questioning my sanity. You’d think I’d be used to it, what with having ESP fingers most of my life, but no.

This was different. Voices rustling in the back of my mind like a million tiny bugs struggling to find purchase in my brain cells. It was creepy. Maybe I could stop it if I touched the walls. They were a luscious shade of peach, an absurdly sane color that shouldn’t be harboring thoughts, words.

I sucked it up, trying to breathe some air into my stressed lungs, then stepped back into the bedroom, and slapped my palm against the wall. A rush of words poured into my mind, none of them distinguishable, just a blur of vocabulary that sent another wave of shivers through me.

Control, Everly. Get control of this.

I blocked out the hissing sound, and focused on what I needed to know. “Who was in this room that you want me to know about?” I asked, hoping that a direct question, the sound of my voice would rein in the wall’s many stored sentences, and condense them into a precise understandable communication.

Not this time.

I ran my fingers through my hair, pushing the heels of my hands hard against my scalp. The background noise quieted some, so I made my way to the built-in dresser and ran my hands over the surface. And there was Millie, looking into the gold-framed mirror atop the dresser. Her gaze was thoughtful, almost as though she knew I’d eventually be there to see what she had to show me. And then she turned away to face the bed where Harlan sat, propped against the headboard. The covers were clumped around his waist, and he was bare-chested and smiling.

Embarrassment flooded me, leaving enough heat behind to cause a rash. I slammed my eyes closed in a futile attempt to burn the image from my brain. I did not want to know anything about Millie and Harlan
like that
. Ev-ver.

And I fled—ran headlong into the main cabin, straight through to the galley where I yanked a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, popped the top, and chugged several swallows. The bubbles burning my throat as I swallowed were a welcome distraction from the bedroom scene of my surrogate grandparents.

I slid my butt along the metal cabinets until I hit the floor. Laughter bubbled from deep in my belly and poured into the empty galley. How silly was I? Of course Millie and Harlan had a sex life, and apparently an active one. More power to them, but surely there wasn’t any reason I had to witness their intimate moments. Maybe it was a good thing this trip across the country and a good part of the Pacific Ocean took a few hours. It’d take me that long to figure out what the hell was going on here, especially if I had to wade through the, um, personal stuff.

It didn’t take long for me to gather my thoughts and start working on a plan to tackle the bedroom. I was positive that Millie had left the images there, imbedded in the walls, for me to find. According to my grandfather, she’d been best friends with my grandmother. So, they’d probably all studied Huna with the same Hawaiian shaman, and had similar psychic skills. The stuff I’d been born into.

The answer to why Pierce had abducted me was in that room. I just had to avoid the personal stuff, get to the crux of the psychic intel, and apply whatever I learned to figure out why he’d kidnapped me, and how best to locate Millie and Harlan.

Had Pierce abducted them, too? Was this some kind of setup?

FIVE

Setup or not, I had work to do.
I scrambled to my feet, tossed my empty soda can into the trash, and scanned the galley. A silver pump container on the edge of the sink looked promising as a source of hand soap. I squirted some into my palm, and the scent of almonds filled the compact space, successfully obliterating the earlier remnants of marinara sauce. Probably a good thing since I hadn’t found any leftovers in the fridge, and I was still hungry.

I washed my hands like an obsessive-compulsive cartoon character. Couldn’t seem to stop, but the mindless activity gave me a chance to whip up a plan for searching the plane. The hand washing had turned into a Lady Macbeth moment. Not so much neurotic as a fortuitous opportunity that would miraculously reset my fingertips and give me a fresh start on searching the bedroom—without lingering images of Harlan and Millie’s private life.

I worked my way to the back of the cabin, clutching chair backs because the plane kept hitting pockets of turbulence. Standing at the entrance to the bedroom, I took time to absorb the ambiance, and to let the hushed whispers that lingered in the walls wash over me. Since I wasn’t fighting them like a crazy person, they seemed less frenzied. Easier to understand. It’s amazing how a Diet Coke had the power to calm me down.

There were two areas in the bedroom that I hadn’t touched besides the bed, and that was out of bounds. A comfy-looking, deep-cushioned wingback chair sat in one corner of the room. The fabric was a deeper shade of peach than the walls, and someone had carelessly tossed an inviting, nubby afghan over the back. It was designed to cuddle into for a good read or maybe to watch a movie, and there was a flat screen monitor attached to the opposite wall—probably for just that purpose. No telling what secrets that chair would share with my fingertips. My hands itched with the possibility of potential clues.

The other thing I hadn’t checked was the closet. I headed there first, slid the door open, and picked up a few flickering images of Pierce and Miz Stalker. Nothing to spark my radar. And then I looked, really looked, at the contents. A tingle worked its way through my veins. Along one wall was an arsenal, an assortment of weapons I didn’t recognize, but why would I? I’d spent hours at the firing range—first with my Kimber, and more recently with a Sig .380, but that was it as far as my proficiency went.

A couple Kevlar vests hung on hooks, along with a black windbreaker, and an empty duffle bag. The duffle had to be the safest thing for me to touch. The weapons would hit my internal monitor with a barrage of ugly, and possibly bloody, images. And the vests were equally risky.

I rubbed my hands together, and did a minute of deep breathing. Considering the contents of the closet, that duffle could hold some knock-me-on-my-ass secrets, and I wanted to be prepared.

It had seen some use, obvious in the heavily stained khaki canvas, and zippered pockets with worn edges. I braced my back against the doorjamb and brushed my fingers over the fabric. The first image that popped up was of her hand, at least I assumed it was an appendage that had belonged to my DB. Square, unpolished fingernails, capable and strong fingers, but shorter than I would have thought. Her face was more delicate, and didn’t seem to go with the hand I was looking at, but the next image confirmed my guess. She leaned over when she secured the bag on the hook, and I got a clear view of her face. Definitely the same woman.