Читать книгу Line Of Sight - Рэйчел Кейн - Страница 12

Stefan Blackman stared after the glaring red taillights of Agent Rush’s car, temporarily stunned into stillness. He’d expected skepticism, but not outright dismissal—especially that kind of dismissal. Frankly, he wasn’t used to rejection. It stung. And it made him angry, too, because he had something to say, didn’t he? Something useful.

Something not at all about how lovely she was.

“Great.” He sighed and shook his head. Stuck in Phoenix, no transportation, no way to get the attention of anybody who would listen. He’d already tried to find a sympathetic officer to get to the good-looking brunette detective with the kid, but no go…. They’d taken his name and probably his photo, but they wouldn’t let him near her. Or anyone. And he wasn’t sure it was a good time to cause a scene—it would only make him look crazier.

What, then? Back to the airport? Back home? It was starting to have a powerful allure, getting the hell out of here and back to the warm, familiar cocoon of his life. He didn’t like how all this was making him feel, not at all.

Yes, that was what he was going to do. Clearly, the police didn’t need him; they had a massive presence here, and with the FBI descending, as well, surely they had more than enough leads without the admittedly not-very-specific visions of a psychic. Cops usually liked to resort to that sort of thing last, not first. And hell, there were phones, right? He could always call.

Maybe he could catch the red-eye back home….

The vision hit him with sudden, wrenching force, sending him sagging against the wooden police barricade and grabbing for support. He sensed all that distantly because this vision was even more visceral and immediate than the previous.

Still in the van. Driving. The girl was feeling the vibration through her body, facedown on the floor of the van. Muscles aching, hands and feet numbed from the tight bonds. Fear slowly receding, simply because she couldn’t continue to be afraid forever…

The girl next to her, the blonde with punk-purple streaks, had mastered her own terror and was doing something with her fingers. She was slowly, clumsily signing letters….

Stefan felt the girl try to sign back.

A hand reached down from somewhere above in the darkness and grabbed the first girl’s hair, yanking it painfully up and pulling her to her knees. She was breathing hard through her nose and trying not to cry. If her nose clogged up, she’d smother. The duct tape on her mouth wasn’t giving, no matter how she tried to work her jaw to loosen it.

“Hey,” said a rough male voice. “I told you not to move, get it? Don’t move. I can always drug you if you give me trouble. You want to avoid that, you stay still. We need one of you, not both. Either one of you gets cute, you get to watch the other one get hurt. Bad. Understood? Nod.”

The girl nodded, breathing hard. On the floor, the blonde nodded, too, eyes leaking furious tears.

The pressure on the girl’s hair released, and she overbalanced and fell hard, banging into the floor face-first. The impact stunned her, and she tasted blood, coppery and hot….

Stefan jerked out of the vision, swallowed, and could still taste the blood. He felt like vomiting. Whoever the girl was, she was controlling her fear, but it was real and immediate. Either one of you gets cute, you get to watch the other one get hurt. He hadn’t been able to sense her thoughts at all, only visuals and sensations, but that was enough. More than enough.

He still didn’t know where she was, or even if the visions were real time; it could have been something that happened hours ago, or would happen an hour into the future. No time sense to any of it. The van was dark in the interior, and the girl hadn’t been able to see….

Wait.

He realized he was still hunched over, clutching the police barricade in both hands, and forced himself to let go and straighten up. He felt sweat trickling down his face, despite the cool night breeze, and wiped his forehead with shaking hands.

As her abductor had jerked the girl up to her knees by the hair, she’d been able to get a brief glimpse out of the front window. The headlights had spilled over a dark empty road, a brilliant yellow line…

…and a road sign.

“She’s on Highway 347,” he said to himself. “She’s there now.” Because the view had still been washed with a faint tint of sunset, the far horizon not yet completely dark.

He needed to tell somebody. Anybody.

Stefan pushed through the crowd of bored reporters to the edge of the crime scene, where the uniformed officers were looking even more bored. Forensics was packing up, and the floodlights were going off. They were leaving.

No sign of the brunette detective and her girl; long gone, he guessed. Out the other side, where there were fewer reporters.

“Sir,” he said, and then louder, “Officer!”

The nearest cop, who’d been speaking with two others, turned to look at him with a dead-eyed stare. “Stay behind the tape, sir,” he said.

“I am behind the tape. I have—”

“You’re leaning over.”

“This is important, I know where they are! The girls!”

He had all their attention now, an uncomfortable weight of it. “How do you know that, sir?” “I saw them.”

“Where, sir?”

“In a van, traveling on Highway 347. I don’t know if they’re going north or south…”

“Back up, sir. How exactly did you see inside the van?”

Oh boy. “I just know, okay? I know. You need to look for them on Highway 347, and hurry. They probably won’t be there long, and those girls are in danger. They’re going to get hurt.”

He didn’t have to be a psychic to get the sense that the cops were not pleased with his explanation, although they dutifully took down all his contact information—home address, cell phone, everything but his brand of underwear. The male cop stepped forward and looked at Stefan from a height well above six feet. “You just know,” he said. “As in, what? You had a dream?”

“A vision, actually,” he said. “Look, I need to talk to the detectives. I can help!”

The cop nodded, but his face had shut down into an expressionless mask. “I see. I’ve got your name and contact information, sir. I’ll make sure it gets to the detectives.”

“Highway 347—”

“Yes, sir. We’ll follow that up.”

The cop was humoring him. No question about it. Stefan felt a hot burn of rage, but it wouldn’t do any good to let it out; he’d get to talk to the detectives, all right, in handcuffs. Not so much a talk as an interrogation, probably.

He needed to talk to Agent Rush.

“Fine,” Stefan said and held up his hands in surrender. “Just check Highway 347. You know how to find me if you need more information.”

Not that he had any more information, really. The glimpse of the road sign had been a pure gift of luck. It wasn’t exactly breaking news that the girl was terrified, or that she was in a van. Or that her friend had purple-streaked hair.

Or that they were in real trouble.

Stefan moved away, furious and frustrated, and tried to decide on his next move. He had no idea where Agent Rush had gone, and had no way to track her down. And he needed to talk to her, he just sensed it. She would listen to what he had to say, if he could just get past that thick defensive shell.

And to do that, she had to want to talk to him.

“Cops giving you a hard time?” asked a cool female voice at his elbow. He turned and saw a petite blonde dressed from the waist up in an expensive silk shirt and tailored jacket, and from the waist down in blue jeans and flats. She looked styled and coiffed and perfectly made-up.

Television reporter, beyond any doubt.

“A little,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but I overheard what you said to him. You said you had information about the missing girls…? Something about Highway 347?”

He smiled at her. She smiled back. It was purely a professional exchange; there was something about her that put him on his guard, maybe the slightly harsh glitter in her eyes, or the ambition he sensed coming off her in waves. Not a bad person, he sensed, but a driven one. Compulsively needing to win.

He had no idea what game she was playing, but she clearly saw him as some kind of pawn.

“How do you know I’m not one of the kidnappers?” he asked. Her eyebrows rose, and those brown eyes sparkled even more.

“Are you? Because that would be one hell of a story.” She hastily tamped down her excitement. “Provided the girls were returned unharmed, of course.”

“Of course.” He tried to keep the irony out of his voice. “I heard they’re both students at a local girls’ school.”

“Private school,” the reporter said. “What do you know about the Athena Academy?”

“Athena Academy?” he repeated blankly. He’d never heard of it. He knew about the goddess Athena, of course— “Nothing.”

“You weren’t called in? Maybe by one of the alumni to help with the investigation?” She seemed to be fishing for something, dangling bait, but he had no idea what she meant.

He shrugged. “I’m a private citizen. Not called in by anybody. How about you?”

She gave him a knowing smile. “I have my sources. I got a tip early in the investigation.” Some of the light went out of her eyes. Too bad. They’d been quite pretty for a while, and now they were narrowing and hardening again. “But you’re just a guy who listens to the police band and hangs around crime scenes? Wastes the time of the police with false leads?” She was in pursuit of a completely different story now, one potentially damaging to him both personally and professionally. He needed to establish credentials, quickly.

“No,” he said and stepped forward, forcing her to meet his eyes. “My name is Stefan Blackman, and I’m a psychic well known in Los Angeles, and if you want to put me on the air, I’ll tell you everything I know about the abduction of these girls. Including where the van was as of five minutes ago.”

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, then smiled. She held out her hand to him, and when he automatically took it, shook briskly. “Shannon Connor, ABS. I’ve certainly heard of you, Mr. Blackman. Don’t they call you the Network Psychic?”

He hated that idiotic name, but he nodded. “I work for the broadcast networks, but not as a psychic. What I do for them really doesn’t involve psychic ability,” he said. “I just read the concepts for the shows and pick the ones I think will be most successful.”

“But everybody says that your track record is extraordinary. Something like ninety-five percent, right?”

He shrugged. “That part’s not visions. It’s just good sense.”

“I like that. Save that for the camera, okay?” Shannon turned and waved at someone in the crowd, then made a pointing gesture toward a large panel van decorated with the ABS logo. A broadcast van. Stefan recognized the heavy extendable antenna mounted to the top of it. “Ten minutes to get set up, then we can tape. I can’t promise when it will air, though. Probably in rotation at the next news break. We’re in luck that Tory Patton’s off on maternity leave—I’m getting premium time, thanks to her getting knocked up. Next thing you know, I’ll be the anchor.” She winked, letting him know it was all in fun. Sort of. “Sound okay to you?”

He hadn’t expected to land a full interview, not so quickly, but time was ticking away, and if he didn’t attract the attention of that cool, dismissive FBI agent soon, it would—he knew—be too late.

“Ready when you are,” he said and gave her a full, charming smile to seal the deal.