Читать книгу Déjà Vu - Lisa Childs - Страница 11

Emotion overwhelmed him. This was why he isolated himself in the wooded hills of his estate—because he couldn’t block out what others were feeling. He couldn’t help but feel it, too.

Disgust and fear emanated from the uniformed officers guarding the door. Trent passed them and ducked under the yellow tape. The crime scene had already been processed, so he was alone in the studio apartment. The victim’s body was on its way to the morgue, but he could feel the residual emotion left in the room.

The paralyzing terror hung heavy in the air. He winced as the echo of the victim’s screams reverberated inside his head. He widened his eyes as he studied the scene—the blood spattered on the white walls and drying to a dark burgundy, the blood pooled on the hardwood floor, as thick and dark as tar. He inhaled deeply, trying to fill his shallow lungs, but he breathed in the cloying metallic scent of blood.

His stomach cramped, and he doubled over, crippled with pain. But the pain was not his. It was never his. He always felt others’ pain, others’ emotions. Never his own.

Until today. Until he’d met Alaina Paulsen.

“What the hell!” a vaguely familiar male voice exclaimed in surprise.

“How—Why are you here?” asked a woman. The woman—Alaina Paulsen.

Like earlier today when he’d been with her, Trent felt none of her emotions. He felt no emotions but his own. Attraction, fascination and an overwhelming sense of destiny …

“You can’t be here,” the man said.

Trent assumed he was the other agent, the one he’d refused to see because he’d only been able to see her. This time he took a moment to compose himself, schooling his features back into his usual cocky mask, before he straightened up and turned to her.

“How did you get here before us?” Alaina asked.

“He must have a helicopter,” her partner answered for Trent. The man stood close to her, protectively. Were they more than professional partners?

Trent didn’t care what they’d been. The guy was no threat to him. No other man had the claim on her that he did. As he met her gaze, one emotion gripped him—possessiveness. Mine.

Her eyes widened, as if she’d read his mind, and she dragged in a shaky breath. “That explains how you got to Detroit before we did,” she said, “but how did you get here?” She gestured at the apartment. “Into our crime scene.”

The “our” to which she referred was not her and her partner; Trent couldn’t accept that. It was him and her. She knew just as well as he did that he was part of this. If only he knew, for certain, which part.

“I told you,” he reminded her. “I have a few fans in law enforcement.”

“In the Bureau?” the male agent asked, his dark eyes narrowed with doubt. His suspicion was as palpable in the air as the scent of the victim’s blood.

“Check out my story,” Trent suggested, more to get rid of the guy than to reassure him.

The agent turned to Alaina, who offered a brief nod. With a warning glare at Trent, the man ducked under the crime-scene tape and slipped out into the hall.

“So you’re the senior agent,” Trent observed.

“What?”

“He checked with you before leaving.” Or maybe her partner had just wanted to make sure she would be all right alone with Trent.

Alaina didn’t satisfy his curiosity as she ignored his observation. “That’s why I went to your estate,” she said, “to check out your story. To find out what your involvement was in those old murders.”

Her brow knitted as she glanced around the room, taking in the crime scene. Again, the color faded from her porcelain skin, leaving her ghostly pale.

But she wasn’t a ghost. She was real. And for the first time in the memory of his own life, Trent felt real. His emotions were finally his own instead of what he’d empathetically picked up from someone or somewhere else.

“Those murders happened before I was born,” he reminded her.

“You do have a friend in the Bureau,” she said, accepting his claim without the confirmation her partner required. “A source.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t call him a source,” he clarified. “More like a fan.” Someone who had contacted him a couple times throughout the years and whom Trent had felt comfortable calling to find out all he could about Agent Paulsen—like where she’d rushed off to in such a hurry.

Before he’d had a chance to kiss her and test the strength of the passion she’d drawn from his soul.

“A fan?” She shook her head, as if she doubted his claim or doubted that anyone would actually enjoy the novels he’d written.

Sometimes he wondered about that himself. He didn’t enjoy writing them; they exhausted him as much as experiencing the emotions of others.

“This murder didn’t happen before you were born,” she pointed out, her teeth nibbling at her full bottom lip. “Did you get sick of just writing about murder and decide to reenact one that you wrote about?”

“No.” He wasn’t a killer … in this life. But if he had the soul of a killer …

“No?” she repeated as if disappointed by his short response. “That’s it? You’re not going to eloquently profess your innocence?”

While he shrugged, he was anything but unconcerned. “It doesn’t matter how eloquent I am. You’ve already made up your mind about me, Alaina.”

“You’re involved,” she insisted. “Somehow, someway, you’re involved.”

He wished like hell that he wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny her allegations.

As if she dismissed him, she began to inspect the crime scene, ignoring his presence. He couldn’t ignore her; he could do nothing but stare at her.

Then she uttered a sudden gasp.

He followed her gaze to discover what had elicited the reaction from her. The blood, the gore? He would have expected that she was used to those things in crime scenes. Then he saw it, too: his book, lying atop the day-bed where the victim had been raped and mutilated. The book lay facedown, the hand lifted over Trent’s face in the publicity shot spattered with blood.

As if he hadn’t already been blaming himself for this woman’s death.

Her blood was on his hand. It had only been a book, Alaina kept reminding herself. But still she couldn’t get the image out of her head. She couldn’t get Trent out, either. She worried that he was in deeper than her mind, that he owned a part of her reincarnated soul.

“Why are you so hung up on Baines?”

She jerked away from her intense scrutiny of the bright lights of the cityscape outside her office window. Vonner’s startling question brought forth a rage of denial and resentment. “Why the hell would you say something so—”

He held up a palm to interrupt her tirade and clarified, “As the killer. Why are you so hung up on him being the killer? Yeah, I get that the helicopter access makes him a suspect in this case, but he wasn’t even alive when the other murders occurred.”

She turned back to the window, leaving Vonner sitting in front of her desk piled high with cold-case files. She only needed to glance at one of the folders to know exactly what was inside; she’d read them all so many times. But how did Trent know so many of the details it had taken her years to learn? “He knows too much.”

“So you think he knows who the killer is?” Vonner asked with a heavy sigh. “That he interviewed him when he started writing those horror books of his?”

He should have been excited by the lead he’d been chasing for months—Alaina for years—but they’d spent hours on the road after very little sleep. She understood his weariness.

But Alaina doubted she would sleep anytime soon. The killing had started again. She knew this murder would not be a onetime thing; she knew it with as much certainty as she knew the contents of every one of those cold-case files. This new victim’s case would never get onto that pile on her desk; Alaina would not rest until Penelope Otten’s murderer was found.

“Yes, I think he knows who the killer is.” Or he had been the killer in another life and his evil soul had called him to kill again …?

She sucked in a breath at the horrific thought. She didn’t want him to be the killer. She just wanted—

Vonner said, “We’ll have to talk to him again.”

That was what she was afraid of—talking to him, touching him, kissing him, giving in to the passion that had burned so hotly between them that it was forever a part of her soul. But she would do whatever was necessary to find the killer. “Yes, we’ll need to interview him.”

“That’s if the bosses will let us.” Vonner pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. “I still can’t believe he was granted access to a crime scene.”

“A crime he could have committed,” she reminded her partner and herself. He could be a killer in this life, too.

“Think the Bureau will let us use the helicopter to get back to the U.P.?” he asked. “I hate to think of doing that drive again.”

“He’s here now,” she murmured, her skin tingling as she sensed him close.

“What?”

“He’s somewhere in the building,” she said.

“What? Did Security notify you when he came in?” Vonner asked.

“Something like that …” Her phone rang, saving her from offering a more specific explanation. Her partner would not understand her special connection with the horror author; she didn’t understand it herself.

Vonner grabbed the receiver. “Agent Paulsen’s desk.”

She held out her hand for the phone, but instead of passing it to her, he hung it up. “Who was that?” she asked.

“The morgue.”

Trent gripped the edge of the metal table on which the victim’s body lay. His vision blurred, a red haze blinding him as pain overwhelmed him. He felt every emotion she had experienced in those final moments before her death. Panic shortened his breath and quickened his pulse. Then the fear intensified to a terror so acute that his lungs burned with a scream he couldn’t utter. His throat ached as if strong hands wrapped tight around his neck, choking the life from his body. But before the threatening blackness claimed him, the pressure eased. He gasped for breath, trying to fill his aching lungs. Then pain shot through his heart, so sharp and intense he clutched a hand to his chest and dropped to his knees.

“What’s he doing?” a male voice whispered. “Having a heart attack?”

Trent turned toward where Alaina stood in the doorway to Autopsy. He hadn’t felt her this time. He’d been too connected to the dead woman, to the emotions echoing from her soul within the empty shell of her mutilated body.

Those emotions clung to him no matter that he tried to shake them off. Exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs, he lurched to his feet and staggered into the metal table. The woman’s stiff arm dropped off the edge, her hand open as if reaching out to him.

Alaina stared at him, her eyes narrowed and her brow slightly creased beneath the fall of blond hair. The man, her partner, stood almost in front of her, as if protecting her from Trent or trying to come between them.

A memory tugged at him, a memory of frustration and jealousy. Someone else had tried to come between them. In another life?

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Agent Vonner asked. “Are you drunk?”

He ignored the man as if he was invisible. To Trent he was; he could see only her now.

“What are you doing?” she asked him finally.

“I was given access—”

“To the Bureau’s morgue?” Vonner asked, his voice cracking with shock and indignation. “Who the hell gave you access?”

Because she lifted a dark blond brow in question, Trent answered, “Phillip Graves.”

A breath hissed out between Vonner’s clenched teeth at the mention of the director’s name. He turned his back on Trent and spoke softly to her. “We gotta stop this, Alaina. We can’t have a suspect getting access to the crime scene and the evidence. We have to talk to the director.”

“You need to talk to Agent Bilski first,” she corrected her coworker as she slipped past him to stand on the opposite side of the metal table from Trent. “Don’t go over his head.”

“Okay, Bilski first,” Vonner agreed. “But you have to come with me to talk to him.”

She shook her head in denial.

Trent’s lips twitched into an amused grin. She didn’t like being told what to do. He could identify; he’d never liked taking orders.

“I can’t leave you alone with him,” Vonner said.

She lifted her gaze from the victim to Trent. “Where’s Dr. Rosenthal?”

“He stepped out to get something for me,” Trent admitted.

“What the hell? Are you ordering him around like you do that ape you have on your payroll?” Vonner asked.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re still here,” Dr. Rosenthal said as he rushed back into the room. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

The gray-haired coroner’s admiration and awe physically washed over Trent, drawing a smile from him even as Vonner’s disgust and distrust pummeled him from the other side of the room. But he experienced none of Alaina’s emotions. He could only feel her, like a touch on his skin, a kiss on his lips….

Dr. Rosenthal held out a book and a pen to Trent. “Do you mind signing my copy for me?”

Trent steadied his hand as he reached for the book, the same edition that had been spattered with blood at the crime scene. Even though this cover was clean, he could see the blood again on his hand.

How was he involved in all of this? It was more than mere coincidence. He knew this. And so did she.

Vonner snorted and turned on his heel, leaving the room. Trent noted his exit, but Alaina didn’t so much as glance at her partner. Instead, she stared at him, as if trying to figure out who he was or where she’d seen him before.

An image chased through Trent’s mind. The curve of a woman’s throat as she arched her neck. Her hands, with slender, red-tipped fingers, cupping and caressing her own breasts as she moved her hips, rocking back and forth on his pulsing erection. Then her cry of pleasure as she came. The woman had red hair and green eyes; she looked nothing like Alaina. But to him, she felt the same.

“Mr. Baines,” the coroner said, glancing from him to Agent Paulsen. Confusion wrinkled his brow. “Do you mind autographing …?”

“Not at all,” Trent assured him, flipping through until he came to the title page. Then he scrawled the doctor’s name, some platitude and his own, although sometimes he didn’t feel as if his name was really his. Even though he hadn’t taken a pen name, Trent Baines felt like an alias; he felt as if he was really someone else.

“So, Dr. Rosenthal,” Alaina said, drawing the coroner’s attention away from him, “when will you have the autopsy report ready?”

“I need more time,” Dr. Rosenthal said, his face flushing with color.

“How long?” Alaina asked sharply, her impatience with the doctor’s lack of professionalism obvious.

“I can’t tell you how long it will take me,” the doctor said. “It’s getting late….”

“How long has she been dead?” she clarified.

“I did a liver temp. Twenty-four hours.”

She glanced at Trent. No doubt he was back on her suspect list. Then she turned to the doctor again and advised, “Let me know as soon as you finish the autopsy. And don’t call me again if you don’t have any information for me.”

Dr. Rosenthal sputtered, “B-but I didn’t—”

“I called you,” Trent admitted, irritation gripping him that the male agent had answered her phone.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I can tell you what happened to her.”

She said nothing, only turned that unfathomable stare on him again.

He continued, anyway. “She was raped, then strangled until she nearly blacked out.”

Dr. Rosenthal gestured toward the victim’s throat. “There is bruising around her neck that supports that.”

“And then she was stabbed,” he said with a twinge in his chest as he relived the woman’s pain. He drew in a ragged breath before finishing his assessment, “And her heart removed from her chest.”

The doctor did not need to point out the gaping hole and missing organ in the mutilated corpse. Dr. Rosenthal only added, “His M.O. is just like that of the protagonist in your books, just like the Thief of Hearts.”

“Exactly like the Thief of Hearts,” Alaina agreed, her eyes unblinking as she studied Trent.

Did she expect a confession?