Touched (Second Sight) (8 page)

She lifted her hips to his thrusting body as he drove into her. The rock hard length of him surged upward, again and again, filling her completely only to withdraw. Her torso struggled to keep up, undulating against his, as he rocked her with each new penetration. But as the tempo increased, she thrashed against him, her body writhing, aching for fulfillment. Mac panted as he pounded into her harder and faster and air was forced from her lungs in breathless urgent gasps. His strokes crescendoed, his hips pumping at a frenetic pace, his thrusts possessing her and penetrating to her very core. Her sweet spot buzzed with the pounding and a sudden convulsion rocked her body.

“
Mac
,” she managed to gasp between breaths.

Suddenly, he buried himself in her.

Her hips rocketed to life, gyrating wildly as a wave of clenches exploded in her abdomen. Inside, she felt him thicken and his fingers tightened around hers. 

“Isabelle,” he breathed, just as his arousal jerked within her. 

He grunted heavily with the release of it and her body convulsed around him. Over and over she spasmed, the dazzling waves of passion sweeping through her. Mac’s arousal jerked again and she felt his climax ripple along its length, molten and spewing. His massive chest flexed into her, their bodies joined at the hips.

As the clenching deep inside her continued to milk him, she shuddered uncontrollably. A deep groan welled up from his chest as he convulsed, bucking deep inside. Together they rode the surge and ebb of pleasure, rocking in unconscious time until, slowly, the waves began to fade. Though tiny tremors of ecstasy continued to reverberate in her abdomen, her climax had finally passed. His hips pulsed a few more times but eventually they grew still.

Mindless oblivion began to take over as a rush of relief washed through her. Mac’s warm body lay on hers now, his breathing harsh behind her ear, their bodies slick with sweat. She felt him slowly withdraw and his hands release hers but she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes or even move her arms. Deep peace settled on her and she gave herself to it completely, lulled by the rhythm of Mac’s breaths.

Eventually, she felt him move to the bed beside her and gently guide her arms down to her sides. She wanted to turn to him, say something, see his face, but as he put a pillow under her head, she realized she was utterly exhausted. He draped his giant arm over her midriff and nuzzled behind her ear. Though she had no idea if he saw, she smiled. Then, as a deep sigh of male satisfaction washed down her skin, she drifted into blackness.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Nothing useful,” Sharon confirmed, holding out the report to him as Mac entered the living room. “As you suspected.” 

“Okay,” he said, taking it from her as well as the offered cup of coffee.

Isabelle left his side, headed to the kitchen, and glanced back at him with a little smile just before she disappeared behind the swinging door.

The morning had been a strange series of little rituals. Though they’d slept late and needed to get going quickly, she’d unwrapped a new bar of soap for him. She’d made breakfast while he was in the shower and, while she was showering, he realized that she used paper plates, styrofoam cups, and plastic utensils. Everything was disposable. He’d had a few minutes to look around her apartment as well. Though he’d tried to turn off his profiler’s brain, that wasn’t really possible. Despite the rundown neighborhood and the lack of a car, the furniture all looked new. Nor were there any knick-knacks. Or photos. When she’d finished and entered the living room, she’d been dressed in a particularly form fitting dress of dark green, a neckline that dipped a little deeper, and delicate light green gloves to match. She’d actually blushed when she realized he was staring.

“So,” said Sharon. “No news is good news?”

Mac realized he’d been grinning and abruptly stopped.

“No,” he said. “Not in this case.”

“Oh,” Sharon said, looking toward the kitchen. She’d been about to go back to her computer when she stopped, apparently remembering something. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look at the transcript I texted everyone but the abductor misquoted the Bible.”

Mac scowled.

“Did he?” he said, before he took a sip of coffee.

“Yes,” she said nodding. “I compared it to several versions online.” She sat on the couch and brought up the transcript. “The King James, the New International Version, the New American Bible, and others,” she said pointing at the screen. “He says ‘With whom the kings of the earth had committed incest’ but the correct quote is actually ‘With whom the kings of the earth had committed fornication.’ He did the same one more time. ‘Drunk with the wine of her incest’ ought to be ‘Drunk with the wine of her fornication.’”

Mac sat down next to her. 

“That’s an interesting slip,” he said. “One might even say Freudian.” He paused. “The killer was nervous.”

“Killer?” Sharon asked.

“He’s not a kidnapper, not in the conventional sense,” Mac said. He leaned toward her. “He intends to kill Esme,” he said very quietly. “That’s clear. No ransom request, claimed not to have known her name. She’s little more than a means to an end for him. With the raving phone call and the incest slip, he’s starting to come into focus.” Mac paused and then thought out loud. “Good verbal skills, aggressive behavior, dares to call when he knows the call will be traced. Arrogant, probably intelligent.” He looked at the computer screen. “Incest? Maybe something he’s experienced.” His gaze shifted to Sharon. “Do you see where this is headed?”

“A serial killer,” she whispered.

“A
sexually-motivated
serial killer. But what we don’t know is why he hasn’t killed Esme yet.” 

At that moment, Isabelle and Anita came in from the kitchen. Anita took a tray of pastries to the sideboard near the stairs as Isabelle followed with another. Mac focused on her. The killer had wanted to speak with her. He’d been so nervous on the phone with her that he’d misquoted the Bible. Something about a psychic being part of the team had unnerved him.

And that felt wrong in Mac’s gut. Again he got the feeling this man was simply not what he seemed. Serial killers didn’t get nervous on the phone or make Freudian slips while quoting Bible verses. But whatever he was after, Isabelle played into it and was likely the reason that Esme was still alive. 

He clenched his jaw and shook his head. He needed
more time
and yet time was close to being gone. This was the third day, the
third
, virtually unprecedented. He
had
to have more time. Whatever the killer wanted, he had to be thwarted. He had to be stalled.

An idea began to form in Mac’s mind as he watched Isabelle quickly smile at him and follow Anita back into the kitchen. The killer had to be lulled into a sense of security. They’d give him what he wants.
What was it he said?
‘It’s a war between you and me.’ Fine. Make him believe that he had won.

“What does DC say?” Ben asked.

Sharon was gone and Mac was sitting alone on the couch, Ben standing next to him, waiting. Mac stood.

“Exactly what you’d think,” Mac answered quickly. “But I’ve got a plan.”

Ben smiled–not a smile of relief or even happiness. It was the smile of a man who wanted the tide to turn–the grim grin of someone who felt his time was coming.

“Of course you do,” Ben said.

• • • • •

“I’m going to what?” Isabelle asked, not quite believing what she’d just heard.

“Get on television and say you’re a fake,” Ben said, repeating what Mac had just said. 

Ben, Mac, and Sharon stood across the center island of the kitchen. Anita stood at Isabelle’s side.

“I don’t understand,” Anita said. “How is that going to help?”

“We’re going to give him want he wants,” Mac said to Anita. “Lull him into thinking he’s got time. That he’s got the upper hand.”

“He’ll get careless,” Ben said. 

“He’s already making mistakes,” Sharon said.

“At the very least, he’ll be off balance,” Mac said, still not looking at Isabelle. “That shoe will be on the other foot for a while.”

Anita was silent, looking at the three of them and then she turned to Isabelle. Anita’s lips were pressed together in a slight grimace and she blinked once and then twice.

This is so ironic
, Isabelle thought.
In all my life, being a psychic has never felt so good. Working with people, making a
real
difference
. And now…she was supposed to deny it, just when she’d had her first, big break. Even if she got the chance to say that she’d lied about being a fake–what good would it do? You couldn’t unring the bell. All the years of trying to make people understand–gone.

Anita swallowed and reached out to her but then hesitated, her hands wavering in the air.

Isabelle took them in hers.

“Let’s do it,” Isabelle said quietly.

“Thank you,” Anita said, clutching Isabelle’s arm. 

Isabelle patted Anita’s hand.

“The important thing is Esme,” Isabelle said, mustering a smile. “Didn’t I say that we’re going to find her?”

Anita hugged her tight. 

• • • • •

“It’s not what I want,” Mac said, when they were finally alone.

Sharon had left to compose the statement that Isabelle would read, and Ben and Anita had followed her. Though her words were measured, Mac could see that Isabelle was deeply upset.

“But it was your idea,” Isabelle said. “Wasn’t it?”

“I mean I don’t want you sidelined,” he said, coming around the island, moving one of the stools out of the way. “I want you with me,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his.

Isabelle shook her head and looked down at their hands. 

“Sometimes I think I don’t understand you,” she said quietly.

“Really?” he said. “Even after…last night? Or after our hands touched?”

“Do you believe I have psychic ability?” she asked suddenly and looked up at him.

The question came as a surprise.

“What?” he said, sensing that everything turned on this.

“You’ve never once acknowledged it,” she said. “As far as you’ve ever said, everything I contribute is something your investigation has already revealed. Or it’s a decent guess. Or a logical thing to say.”

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his and he felt the squeeze of her hand.

“Mac, do you believe I have psychic ability or don’t you?”

He
wanted
to be able to say yes, that he believed her unequivocally, without a doubt in his mind. It’s what she wanted to hear, maybe even needed to hear. But, sadly, it wasn’t true and Isabelle didn’t deserve a lie.

“I’m a man of science,” he began. “I rely on facts, on data.”

Isabelle’s shoulders suddenly sagged and she quickly lowered her gaze. In moments, she had dropped his hand and was backpedaling.

“No,” he said reaching toward her, but it was too late. A lopsided smile appeared on her lips and her eyes teared up. “Isabelle,” he said quietly, “don’t.”

“No, that’s all right,” she said quickly, holding up her hands to fend him off as she continued to back away.

Then she ran through the swinging doors, one gloved hand covering her mouth.

• • • • •

“Here we go,” muttered Prentiss, as he poured milk for his cereal. 

He sat at the folding card table in the kitchen-slash-living room of the studio apartment, the small TV set next to the sink. The podium in front of the giant lawn was empty but as Prentiss settled into the folding chair and set the milk carton down, the father came to the microphone.

“Thanks for giving us your time this morning,” said the older man. Like yesterday, when he and his wife had begged for information regarding Esme, he was wearing a dark brown, pin-striped suit and black tie. “We have an announcement to make.” He glanced nervously down at the index card in his hand as cameras clicked furiously. “Actually, it’s more of an introduction. So,” he said, glancing off camera, “let me just introduce Isabelle de Grey.” He walked off in the direction he’d glanced and suddenly the psychic was on screen. The firing of flash bulbs and shutter releases exploded as she replaced the father. The woman was pretty, Prentiss thought, as he spooned a mouthful of cocoa-flavored balls into his mouth. Instead of the hurried shots of her running down the sidewalk or riding in the back of an SUV, the camera focused on just her.

“As many of you have heard,” she read from a quaking sheet of paper that she held in front of her. “My name is Isabelle de Grey and I have been referred to as a psychic.” Prentiss’s ears pricked up. “But I’d like to state, for the record, that I am
not
.” Prentiss stopped chewing. “I do not claim to have any abilities beyond those of the every day and the physical. I am
not
a psychic nor do I believe that such people exist. I have been here,” she glanced off camera but had to blink at the sudden fury of flashing bulbs, “with the Olivos family as a friend and supporter. I see now, though, that my presence has only been a distraction from the real and only reason that any of us should be here: to see Esme safely returned to her family. Therefore, I’m leaving and I apologize to the Olivos’s for any harm I might have caused.”

With that, she simply folded the paper in half and left. A cacophony of voices immediately filled the air. Questions were shouted. 

But Prentiss didn’t hear them. Instead, he stared down at the soppy cereal in his bowl and the spoon that he gripped in his shaking hand. In one savage movement, he swept everything off the table–the bowl, the milk carton, the old newspapers. They crashed against the cabinets under the sink, milk and cereal spewing in every direction, before clattering to the floor.

“
No!
” he wailed.

CHAPTER NINE

“Just leave the entire box,” Isabelle told the agent. “I’ll just be
here
.”