"They've already taken her backpack," Lucas said. "Her parents will get it, I guess."
"Yes," Bishop said.
"You knew. From the moment you got here, you knew she was dead."
"Not from the moment I got here."
"But from the day."
"Yes."
Lucas turned his head, staring at Bishop incredulously. "And said nothing?"
"I knew she was dead. I didn't know where she was. The police would never have believed me. Her family would never have believed me."
"I might have."
"You didn't want to. You had to find her yourself. So I waited for you to do that."
"Knowing all the time she was dead."
Bishop nodded.
"Jesus, you're a ruthless bastard."
"Sometimes."
"Don't say it's because you have to be."
"All right. I won't."
Lucas grimaced and returned his haunted gaze to the ground and the scattered remains of Meredith Gilbert.
"It ends this way more often than not." His voice was beyond exhausted. "With a body or what's left of one. Because I wasn't fast enough. Wasn't good enough."
"She was dead an hour after he got his hands on her," Bishop said.
"This time, maybe." Lucas shrugged.
Judging that the time was right, Bishop said, "According to the laws of science, it's impossible to see the future, to know ahead of time what's going to happen next. Impossible to have that sort of edge as an investigator. I don't believe that. I believe that telepathy and empathy, telekinesis and precognition, clairvoyance and all the other so-called paranormal abilities can be tools to give us more than an edge. To make us, maybe, better. To make us faster."
After a moment, Lucas turned his head and met Bishop's steady gaze. "Okay. I'm listening."
Two days later, both looking and feeling considerably better after round-the-clock sleep and a couple of showers, Lucas pushed his plate away, picked up his coffee cup, and said, "You don't have to baby-sit me, you know. I'm not going to bolt on you. I said I'd give your new unit a try, and I will."
"I know that." Bishop sipped his own coffee, then shrugged. "I just figured we might as well get an early start back, since we're heading east. The jet's warmed up and waiting for us."
Brows lifting, Lucas said, "Jet? You rate a Bureau jet?"
Bishop smiled slightly. "It's a private jet."
"You rate a private jet?"
Replying seriously, Bishop said, "I'm trying to do more than build a unit with the FBI. I'm also working on building a civilian support structure, a network of people in and out of law enforcement who believe in what we're trying to accomplish. They'll help us in different ways, including fast and effective transportation."
"Hence the jet."
"Exactly. It's not overhead for the unit or the Bureau and isn't a burden on the taxpayers. Merely a generous contribution from a private citizen who wants to help."
"One of these days," Lucas said, "you're going to have to tell me how all this came about. I am, after all, another man who understands obsession."
"We'll have plenty of time to talk."
Lucas set his cup down, murmuring, "But I wonder if we will."
Bishop didn't reply to that, merely saying, "If you're packed and ready, why don't we go?"
"Before I change my mind?"
"Oh, I don't think you're going to do that. As you say, we both understand obsession."
"Uh-huh. I have a hunch the Bureau doesn't have a clue what they're really getting into."
"Time will tell."
"And if they close us down once they realize?"
"I won't let that happen."
"You know," Lucas said dryly, "I almost believe you."
"Good. Shall we?"
The two men left the small diner and within an hour were in Bishop's rented car on the road to the airport. Not a lot was said at first, and it wasn't until they were nearly there that Bishop finally asked what he had to.
In a very controlled voice, he asked, "Why can't you find her for me?"
Lucas replied immediately, obviously expecting the question. "Because she isn't lost. She's hiding."
"Hiding from me?" The question was clearly a difficult one.
"Only indirectly. You know who she's really hiding from."
"She's afraid. You can feel that."
"Distantly, through you. You two were linked at one time, I gather. Your fear for her is strongest. What I got from her was brief and faint. She's afraid, but she's strong. Very strong. In control."
"She's safe?"
"As safe as she can be." Luke glanced at him. "I can't predict the future. You know that too."
"Yes," Bishop said. "I know that. But somewhere out there is someone who can."
"Then I expect you'll find them," Luke said, returning his attention to the road ahead of them. "Just like you found me."
CHAPTER 1
Present day
Thursday, September 20
"Sssshhhh. Be very quiet," he said. It was almost impossible, but he managed not to groan or moan or make any other sound behind the duct tape covering his mouth. The blindfold kept him from seeing anything, but he had seen all he'd had to before the blindfold had been tied in place: his abductor had a very big gun and he clearly knew how to handle it.
His instincts were screaming at him to struggle, fight, run if he could.
He couldn't. The time for even attempting escape, if there had ever been one, was past. His wrists were duct-taped together, like his ankles. If he so much as tried to get up from the chair where he'd been placed, he would fall on his face or on his ass.
He was helpless. That was the worst of it. Not the fear of what might be done to him, but the realization that he couldn't do a goddamned thing to stop it.
He should have paid attention to the warning, he was sure of that much. Even if it had sounded like bullshit, he really should have paid attention.
"I'm not going to hurt you," his abductor said.
He unconsciously tipped his head a bit to one side, his agile mind noting the slight emphasis on the first word. He wasn't going to hurt him? What did that mean-that someone else would?
"Don't try to figure it out." The voice was amused now but still careless as it had been from the beginning.
Mitchell Callahan was no fool; he'd weighed far too many powerful men over the years to be deceived by a quiet voice and seemingly negligent manner. The more ostensibly indifferent a man seemed to be, the more likely he was to blow your balls off, metaphorically.
Or literally.
I can't even reason with the son of a bitch.
It was truly Callahan's idea of hell, being helpless and unable to talk his way out of it.
"I'm sure your wife will pay the ransom, and then you can go home."
Callahan wondered if the duct tape and blindfold hid his reflexive grimace. His wife? His wife, who was on the verge of filing for divorce because she had arrived at his office unexpectedly after hours to find him screwing his secretary on his desk?
Oh, yeah, she really wanted him back. She was undoubtedly just eager as hell to pay major bucks to save her husband's cheating ass.
"Don't worry; I asked for a reasonable ransom. Your wife can get her hands on it easily, I imagine."
Callahan couldn't stop the strangled sound that escaped him, then felt his face get hot with furious embarrassment when his captor laughed.
"Of course, she may not want to, when that private investigator she's hired discovers that your secretary is only the latest in a long line of women you've enjoyed. You really don't know how to keep your fly zipped, do you, Mitchell? And she's such a nice lady, your wife. She deserves better. You really should have been a good and respectful husband to her. It's not all about being a successful breadwinner, you know. And, after all, why does the world need another cookie-cutter subdivision ruining the view up here?"
Callahan felt a sudden chill. His captor was talking too much. Why give his victim a chance to memorize the sound of his voice? Why betray so much knowledge of Callahan's life, his business?