“So Bishop does believe a local is committing these murders,” Trinity was saying.
It was DeMarco who said, “Well, a stranger would stick out, that’s fairly obvious. I’m betting most of the townsfolk already know the three of us have arrived, and have been discussing us, and we’ve only been here a few hours.”
“Probably so,” Trinity acknowledged with a sigh that misted the air before her.
Deacon shrugged. “I didn’t come in a black SUV, so not so obviously a fed. I doubt Melanie told anyone her brother was coming for a visit, not if she didn’t tell you.” Half under his breath, he said, “Knowing her, she probably started having second thoughts the moment I said I was on my way.”
Hollis looked at him curiously but didn’t ask.
Trinity merely nodded. “But I bet it’s already known you’re FBI. I did run your plates. Which means my office knows. And it’s well past lunchtime, so most of the first shift have left the office on break or for lunch. Or both. So, yeah, word should be spreading.”
But her gaze was on Hollis, and she immediately added, “What is it?”
“Hmmm?” Hollis looked at her, then blinked. “Dunno.”
“Not a spirit?”
“No. I haven’t seen—or felt—what I would normally with a spirit nearby, and definitely haven’t seen a spirit.” She didn’t add that that particular sense had been AWOL for months now. She shifted slightly, as though physically uncomfortable, and she was frowning. “This . . . Something feels . . . off.”
“A murder victim isn’t enough?” Trinity asked warily.
“Oh, it’s enough. But this is . . . something else. I’ve felt it since we got up here. Really felt it in the parsonage. Something is just . . . off.”
“Off, how?” her partner asked her. “Your sense of a place tends to come from normal observation—or a spirit energy.”
“This is different. You still don’t feel a threat?”
DeMarco glanced around them, inwardly checking with the primal sense that virtually always warned him of danger, then shook his head. “No, same as before. No weapon pointed this way. You think we’re being watched?”
“I know we are.” Hollis was momentarily surprised by her own certainty and frowned at the sheriff before allowing her restless gaze to roam around the area, suddenly conscious that there was nothing on the slopes above them but forest, dense and dark even in winter, and that it seemed to loom over them. “Like Reese said, I don’t usually feel things like that unless there’s a spirit somewhere about. But this feeling is getting stronger, and I still don’t see anything the rest of you don’t see.” Except a really creepy forest looming over us. “Or anyone.”
Calm as always, DeMarco said, “Maybe energy of some other kind. You could be more sensitive to energy in general now. Can you tell if it’s positive or negative?”
“Negative.” She had answered without hesitation and frowned again as she looked at him, repeating more slowly, “Negative.”
Trinity said, “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it usually isn’t. But not necessarily . . . damaging.”
“You mean to the general populace, or psychics?”
Hollis was faintly surprised for a moment, then said wryly, “I seldom think of how energy affects non-psychics. But of course it does, it affects all living things. And electronics, of course; they can go haywire in a place like this, or just not work the way they’re supposed to work.”
“What about people?”
“Just taking a guess based on how uncomfortable I feel, and with no idea how long it’s been in the area, I’d say the non-psychics in this area, especially the ones more sensitive to energy fields, could be dealing with short tempers, maybe depression or just a general anxiety.”
“And you psychics?”
“Varies, depending on the individual. Some of us feel it, some don’t.” She eyed the two men and raised her brows.
DeMarco shook his head. “I don’t feel anything odd.”
Deacon hesitated, then said, “I might be picking up on Hollis, but my skin still feels like it’s crawling a bit.”
Hollis sighed, then said dryly, “And people wonder why I’m still single.” Without waiting for a response or reaction to that, she went on immediately. “Like I said, it’s making me feel just mildly uncomfortable, at least right now. But even if psychics aren’t consciously aware, energy can affect us and usually does. There’s just no way to predict how.”
“Wonderful,” Trinity said.
Hollis eyed the others, one by one, obviously concentrating. “Your auras have changed a bit. Sort of a metallic shimmer on the outer edges. Metallic usually means energy; I’m guessing we’re all instinctively blocking that.”
“So far, at least,” DeMarco murmured.
Trinity asked Hollis, “Can you see your own aura?”
“Usually not, even in a mirror. And I don’t block too well; being psychic is relatively new to me, and I haven’t been able to build much of a shield. Plus, I broadcast, which is why Deacon is probably feeling uneasy.”
Trinity lifted her brows in a silent question.
“Broadcasting is another one of my bells and whistles. Other psychics tend to pick up my thoughts or emotions on some level. Even through their own shields sometimes, especially if I’m really upset about something.” She sighed. “I don’t like it, and I’m working on a shield, but in the meantime I have moments where I feel . . . very exposed.”
“Wouldn’t that mean negative energy would affect you more than anyone with a shield?”
“You’d think. But not so much. Not really many absolutes with this stuff, just what each of us has experienced to date.” Hollis shrugged, adding briefly, “It has to do with how I became a psychic, and it’s a long story. Short version is that I’m sensitive to negative energy but I deal with it better than most other psychics. So far, it hasn’t been damaging.”
There was a moment of silence, during which Hollis became conscious that she was being stared at.
“What?”
DeMarco stepped closer and held out his handkerchief. In a very level voice, he said, “Hollis, your nose is bleeding.”
—
HOLLIS CHECKED THE handkerchief, then refolded it and stuck it into her pocket, making a mental note to have it cleaned before returning it to Reese. Not that he cared. But she did.
“I think it’s stopped.”
They were all watching her as if she were a fragile vase on a shaky shelf, and it irritated her. “Really. I think it’s stopped. I’m fine.”
Deacon said slowly, “I think maybe the question should be, why did it start?”
“I don’t know. Hell, we’re halfway up a mountain; maybe it’s the altitude.”
“Never bothered you before,” DeMarco said.
Traitor.
Hollis wondered if she was broadcasting, and rather hoped she was. She couldn’t tell from his face, which was as impassive as it generally was. “I have a slight headache,” she confessed finally, feeling sulky as a child for that moment. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, resisting the urge to rub the back of her neck—or bang her aching head against something. Because it was more than a slight headache, it was a wall banger, and it had started abruptly just about the same time the nosebleed had started.
And she had no idea why she didn’t want to explain any of that.
Instead, she said, “I probably shouldn’t have pushed so hard to see your auras.”
“You had to push hard?” Again, DeMarco.
“Yeah.” It wasn’t until she said it that Hollis realized. “But that’s usually the easiest thing I do. I mean, I concentrate, but it doesn’t take anything out of me, not like dealing with spirits does. Not like healing does.” And you were letting me see your aura, so I didn’t have to push harder just for you.
Him and his double shield.
She was still wondering if she was broadcasting. Or if he was just reading her. Because even
when he said he wasn’t, she had to wonder about that, especially when something about his eyes told her he knew all the things she wasn’t saying out loud.
Damn telepaths.
DeMarco and Deacon exchanged looks, and the former said, “You said the wrongness you felt was negative.”
“I also said I deal with negative energy well, never mind the nosebleed. I deal with it very well, in fact. You of all people should know that.”
A very slight frown drew his brows together, for DeMarco the equivalent of a scowl. “That was spiritual energy. Even the negative stuff. Right?”
“Yeah. At least . . . I’m pretty sure it was.”
“But you said whatever you feel up here isn’t that kind of energy.”
“Well, one of us said that.” It was her turn to frown. “Maybe it’s the geology of this place; didn’t you bring that up? Trinity, are there a lot of metals in this mountain? I mean, do you get an unusual number of lightning strikes, serious problems with electronics, compasses that go nuts?”
Trinity didn’t hesitate, clearly relieved to talk about anything other than the second murdered friend this week. “Down close to Main Street, no problems to speak of. The higher you climb, the more likely you are to run into the sort of things you listed.” She paused, then added, “Virtually all the buildings along the top dozen or so cross streets have lightning rods, securely grounded, and more than the average number of surge protectors for their electronics; our electronics store is one of the most successful businesses in town, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah, I saw some of the lightning rods. They made me wonder even before we got up here,” Hollis said almost absently. “We have plenty of experience with how energy can interfere with and even destroy electronics.”
“Glad there’s at least a reason for it,” Trinity said rather dryly. “I’ve often wondered, even though there’s always been a lot of energy up here. Sometimes you can stand down on Main Street totally in the dry, and watch a storm up here. A bad storm.”
Hollis nodded slowly. “Which could explain why I didn’t feel anything odd down on Main. Maybe it is just the geography of the place.”
Trinity asked, “Would that make you feel as though you were being watched?”
“I have no idea—though I imagine negative energy could make me feel any number of negative things. As I said, this is a learn-as-you-go sort of thing, figuring out the abilities, what they can do, what causes or triggers them. If they are triggered.”
“Are they triggered by energy?” Trinity asked directly.
“We think so. Rarely. It’s more likely to be triggered by physical or emotional trauma, a head injury, that sort of thing. It isn’t often that we encounter energy fields powerful enough to affect us.”
“But you have,” DeMarco pointed out. “At least twice before that I know of. And both times the energy was negative.”
Hollis was faintly surprised that he mentioned that, but she had learned over time that her partner never let something slip by accident; for whatever reason, he felt it was an important bit of information the others needed to know.
To Trinity, Hollis said, “I’ve been psychically stable for months now, but I have a history of developing additional abilities during highly stressful situations or when there’s excess energy about. At first, I was just a medium; that was triggered by physical and emotional trauma. Then came the other stuff, popping up almost always during intense cases. Broadcasting—sometimes as if I’m powerfully telepathic and able to send thoughts, though never receive—and seeing auras and healing myself and others. Most recently, we discovered I could channel energy, even dark energy, and more or less make it positive energy instead.”
“How?”
“Beats me. All I know is that it comes in dark and leaves bright.”
After a moment, Trinity said, “Forgive my saying, but that sounds weird as hell.”
“Pretty much the way it feels. Although it had a temporary strengthening effect on me physically, which was a nice change.” She didn’t mention the other physical change, which was not as intense as it had been but was still present: Her eyes had literally turned a different shade of blue. Also weird, a very long story to explain it, and so why even mention it? “Mostly, using our abilities leaves us tired at best and drained at worst, especially if it’s a dangerous situation.”
“Sorry to keep harping on the subject,” Trinity said, “but if you channel dark, negative energy that’s bright and positive when you release it—what happens to the dark? I mean, do you literally change positive to negative? Because I didn’t think that was the way energy worked.”
“Neither did I,” Hollis answered frankly. “But if you’re asking me if anything dark remains in me afterward—no, it doesn’t. We have people in the unit who can sense that kind of thing. Several. Bishop is very careful about that given the work we do, making sure we’re monitored in every way possible to be sure we aren’t being harmed by using our abilities. And I’ve been assured that nothing negative was left behind in me.”
After a moment, Trinity nodded. “Okay. What about this negative energy you’re sensing here? Can you channel that? Change that?”
“Probably not. The one time I did that, I was . . . connected. Standing in a kind of doorway where the energy was tightly focused so it was relatively easy to draw in. Up here, this is diffused, for want of a better word. No purpose, no direction, nothing guiding it. It simply . . . is.”
“Yeah, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”
“Why?” Deacon asked.
She drew a breath and let it out, then settled her shoulders with the air of someone facing something she’d rather not have had to face. “Because with a few rare exceptions, most everything really bad that’s happened in Sociable has happened in the higher elevations. It’s something that goes back as far as the town does.”
—
HE LOST INTEREST in watching them after a while. The coroner looked depressed, the crime scene techs scurried around taking care of their minutiae—one of them retiring off to the side behind a bush to lose his lunch before grimly resuming his duties. And the others . . .
The others.
He still couldn’t reach them as he’d expected to be able to, and that was troubling. It was also troubling that his strength seemed to come and go.
He was going to need all his strength to finish this. To be the sword hand of God and deliver justice.
More justice.
There was a part of him that knew, that understood how to harness the power all around him. Incredible power, more power than he could ever need, ever use. That part of him had the most insistent voice and was the one he tried his best to ignore. Because no matter what the voice said, he didn’t think he was strong enough to do that. To . . . hold that.
To master that.
He was afraid to try.
And right now, he was tired. He was tired and he needed to sleep.
Everything would make sense again if he could just sleep . . .
—
“REALLY BAD THINGS?” Hollis asked a bit reluctantly. She was avoiding as much as possible even a glance toward the body and the crime scene techs still working.
Definitely a bad thing.
But Trinity was saying, “The church itself has a few stories attached to it, but it’s the old parsonage that’s legendary.”
Deacon was curious, and it showed. “Any particular legend you want to share?”
“Well, there are lots of old stories going back nearly two hundred years. Hard to document those, since not many records exist. But some survive. It’s an official historical building; in the summer, it and the church draw a few tourists if they pick up maps in town showing sites of local interest, or they already know the history of the area. Or if one of those ghost-hunting outfits is in town.”
“You seriously get a lot of those?”
“Usually a few every summer. Occasionally a group comes up here in winter. Deliberately
.”
DeMarco guessed, “The legend you have in mind has something to do with a winter event?”
“The most recent one, yes, though it’s not really a legend. I know it actually happened, because it happened about ten years ago. There was a young preacher living in the parsonage with his wife and baby daughter; the church was being restored after decades of not being used for anything except for the local kids to scare each other. The town had put out feelers to see if any preacher was interested. We got one taker, it would have been his first church, and he was due to resume services in the spring.”
“I have a bad feeling about what’s coming,” Hollis said.
Trinity drew a breath and let it out, misting the air. “There were no warning signs anyone saw. They seemed like a . . . very happy little family. They’d lived in the parsonage since just before Christmas. They’d been attending another of our churches until this one was ready for them, so the townsfolk had been getting to know them. Friendly people. Nice people. A couple very much in love.”
“I know I’m going to hate this,” Hollis muttered.
“It was about this time of year, and it had been a bad winter. There was a snowstorm, but not without warning; most people had been able to stock up on supplies so they could shelter in place, especially up here. The young preacher and his wife certainly had; several people had talked to them before the storm hit. The workers for the church had even left one of their generators for the family, in case they lost power.”
“Did they?”
“No. That seldom happens up here, unless there’s a lightning strike. We just got a lot of snow. And nobody got back up here for four days.” Trinity drew a breath. “According to all the evidence, sometime during the early hours of the storm, the young preacher strangled his wife—and then killed their child on the church altar before returning to the parsonage and slitting his own throat.”
“God,” Deacon said.
“I don’t think God was here,” Trinity responded in the same steady tone with which she had related the horrific story. “I don’t think God had been here for a long time.”