Page 6 of Hold Back the Dark


  For several moments it appeared he was too angry and determined not to care to give in, but then he winced and reached up to rub his left temple briefly, and some of the rage drained away, leaving his eyes lighter but his face weary. “I don’t want to go,” he muttered.

  “Still no luck with the shield, huh?” Reno didn’t have much of one herself, but she knew both that she was in the rather amazingly small percentage of people he couldn’t read, and that her own abilities made her a pure receiver, so she didn’t broadcast to telepaths anyway.

  They were likely the only reasons she had been able to get closer to him than anyone else had. Once upon a time.

  She wondered, as she had wondered silently more than once, if he even realized that the sheer raw power of his abilities, unshielded, made any sensitive person anywhere near him completely aware of the hot fury of his constant wordless rage. She doubted it, even though he had spent time with empaths and telepaths who could certainly have explained it to him.

  Being a pure receiver herself, she could most certainly have explained it to him. Which might have been another reason he had bolted from Chicago.

  “No,” he said finally. “No luck building a shield.” He stepped past her, automatically keeping an obvious distance between them that might have discouraged most women, and sank down in what looked like a comfortable leather chair at right angles to a long leather sofa.

  She moved far enough to sit down on the end of the sofa nearest his chair, respecting his personal space and knowing better than to wait for an invitation. “Bishop says it’s the sort of thing that tends to happen in the field,” she reminded him.

  “I know what Bishop says,” he snapped, but more quietly.

  “Then why not try it,” she said practically. “Trying to do the thing on your own hasn’t worked. Obviously. Being a hermit hasn’t done anything except make you more angry and, if possible, more ill-mannered. What’ve you got to lose?”

  “My mind,” he said grimly. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

  Reno considered briefly, then said, “Well, if my vision was accurate, and they mostly are, you may not have to worry about that much longer.” She stopped there and waited. Patiently.

  Dalton glared at her again, clearly unwilling to ask. But she merely smiled and waited. Patiently. And finally he swore at her and added, “You are the most maddening woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Yeah, I’d be flattered by that except I know most of the women you’ve known have been doctors and nurses and therapists.”

  He stiffened.

  Reno held his angry gaze, smiling faintly now. “It is what it is, Dalton. We’ve all done time on shrinks’ couches, in clinics, even in jail and locked up in other . . . facilities . . . occasionally. Most of us have been on too many meds and forced into way too many programs of one kind or another designed to fix what mainstream doctors insist is broken. You had it rougher than most on that score, and for longer than most, but a lot of psychics went through a dozen different kinds of hell that make yours look like a party. Stop being so touchy. Get over it.”

  Dalton smiled, though few would have recognized the expression. “You were always the psychic in the center, weren’t you, Reno? You and your collection of freaks.”

  With a chuckle, she said, “As a general rule, I like psychics better than the so-called normal people. So, yeah, I keep in touch with a few other freaks like us.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t join that FBI unit of Bishop’s.”

  “Somebody had to stay out here in the world and keep an eye on the freaks who wouldn’t or couldn’t be cops.”

  Dalton shifted slightly in his chair and frowned. “All right, you can stop using that word.”

  “What, freaks? Thought it was your preferred label for us.” Her faint smile remained.

  “I don’t like labels,” he snapped.

  “Doesn’t matter what you like. The world’s full of them. Something else that is what it is.” Changing subjects smoothly, she said, “I don’t see any little womanly touches about the place. Still determined to go it solo?”

  An indefinable emotion passed over his angry face and was gone. “Some people should be alone. You know that.”

  “I know you believe that. I should think you’ve scared away most women you’ve encountered here without much effort whether you could read them or not,” she said in an agreeable tone. “Just the way you did in Chicago. But I don’t scare so easily.”

  “No?”

  “No. Enough apocalyptic visions tend to put all kinds of other things into their proper perspective.”

  His frown deepened. “That’s twice you’ve hinted something bad is coming. Either explain it or cut it out.”

  “I doubt I have to explain much. You were never a stupid man, Dalton—about anything except people, at least—so I’m sure you’ve figured out for yourself that the threat we were warned about is something way, way beyond bad.”

  His mouth tightened. “So what if it is. I plan to stay here and mind my own business, and if you’re as smart as you think you are you’ll do the same thing.”

  “Stay here?”

  Dalton glared at her.

  With a soft laugh, Reno shook her head. “Such an angry man. That hasn’t changed. Well, to be honest, neither have I. Much. Except that I’ve decided I sort of like this world the way it is, flaws and all. Not really ready for an apocalypse of any kind, not if there’s a chance we can stop it.”

  “We?”

  “Mmm. We weren’t the only ones summoned. I understand there are six of us outside Bishop’s unit plus two SCU agents who were called and one more coming along for reasons of his own. We should make up a highly unusual team, to say the least. I left Chicago earlier today on the jet. Stopped briefly in Montana to pick up Sully Maitland. I’m sure you remember him. He and the jet are here waiting on the mainland. After we leave Alaska, we fly down to San Francisco to pick up Logan Alexander, who you also remember, and then head cross country to North Carolina to meet up with the rest.”

  He was still frowning. “Long trip.”

  “Yeah, even if I manage a nap on the leg back, jet lag doesn’t begin to describe the way I’ll feel by the time we finally get to North Carolina.”

  “To Prosperity?”

  “Eventually. First, the plan is to gather at what Bishop describes as our command center not very far from Prosperity.”

  “That place of his in the mountains?”

  “I believe so. I’m told there’ll be technical people staying there for the duration, plus Bishop and Miranda, standing ready to support our efforts in any and every way they can. So we can basically call on FBI resources plus just about anything else in order to do whatever we have to do.”

  “Reno—”

  “And at Quantico, they’re already forming up a second line of defense. In case we fail.” She got to her feet. “Not that I mean to fail, and I doubt anyone else does. But you never know, after all. It’ll be the first team effort for us, so we’ll have to wait and see. Go pack a bag, Dalton. We need to get going.”

  “I’m not coming.”

  “Of course you’re coming.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You heard me. No.”

  Reno was not Bishop’s “perfect psychic,” which meant she could not control her abilities a hundred percent of the time. But like all psychics she had at least one quality unique to her: Pulling someone else into a vision with her was one of those unique qualities. Another was that she could, at least for a relatively short while afterward, remain connected to one of her visions.

  And experience it a second time.

  Without warning, she leaned over and grasped Dalton’s wrist. And pulled him into that seared and blasted hell with her.

  FOUR

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 7

 
Victoria Stark leaned back against the front of her white Chevy Cruze and watched as excellent artificial lighting held back the night and allowed her to see the sleek private jet touch down on the single long runway of this small private airstrip. She wondered idly who the airstrip belonged to. There was, as far as she could tell, no name posted anywhere; Bishop had given her turn-by-turn directions from the nearest main highway but hadn’t referred to her destination as anything other than “the airstrip.”

  It was a remote place in a small and otherwise apparently deserted valley in the Appalachians, but very well kept, with a staffed office; a control tower that, though small, was clearly adequate and well staffed as well; and a small group of quiet but efficient people who took care of whatever traffic landed here.

  Two somewhat unusual-looking large green helicopters had only a half hour before been towed from the big hangar, gleaming and obviously ready to go . . . wherever. And several people stood ready to guide the jet to its place near the hangar and the choppers, should it need guidance.

  Since she’d arrived just before dark some hours ago, Victoria had gotten the chance to explore and to observe, an opportunity she hadn’t had on her single prior visit here years before.

  She had already eyed with faint interest the simultaneous arrival of a big black SUV that practically screamed federal vehicle, a more nondescript Jeep, a Bronco, and a very nice but not new light-colored BMW X5 SUV. All were parked out to the side of the small office that adjoined the hangar, not far from where she waited with her own car. The drivers had parked the vehicles, apparently leaving the keys inside, and then had all gotten into another black SUV and driven away, without saying anything to anyone as far as Victoria had been able to see.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  Coffee had been offered when she’d arrived, and it was gratefully accepted; the temperature at this altitude had already been dropping, promising a bracingly chilly October evening. Especially to someone who had come from the far warmer city of New Orleans.

  She had also been invited to wait inside the small office section, where there was a warm, comfortable if small lounge area with newspapers, magazines, and a flat-screen offering, a woman named Karen had told her pleasantly, satellite channels, and a recliner comfortable enough for a nap.

  Instead, refusing the offer with polite thanks, Victoria had wandered around on foot for a while, drinking her coffee and stretching her legs after the long trip north. Not thinking about why she was here, but distracting her mind with far more trivial things. About the airstrip. The people who had delivered vehicles so silently and efficiently, and those who clearly worked here in other capacities in what appeared to be a 24/7, year-round operation. All were pleasant, smiling—and not disposed to talk overmuch. Were they feds? She didn’t know. Maybe only technical support? Private security? She hadn’t seen a sign of anyone being armed, and nobody had objected to her wandering, either before or after darkness had fallen.

  She found that interesting.

  Victoria had entered the office area only once more, for a second cardboard cup of coffee that she carried back outside. That plus the jacket she’d gotten from her car left her warm enough to remain outside. And allowed her to witness the arrival of at least part of the group gathering here, probably for no more than a few minutes before they’d be choppered up to the mountain house.

  The jet taxied to within about twenty yards from the hangar, closer to her at this end of the structure, and its roar quieted and then dropped off even more to a low rumble as men carrying blocks hurried to place them in front of and behind the wheels.

  Victoria watched as the jet’s door opened, the stairs that were part of the door let down with it. She wasn’t very surprised when Bishop was first off the plane, heading immediately toward her. His lithe, almost feline grace and deceptively easy stride marked him as an athletic man very comfortable in his own skin, and Victoria thought every time she saw him that he was physically more powerful than he looked and that he wielded a great deal more of other kinds of power than even the massive government organization to which he belonged could boast.

  He could, she believed, be a very dangerous man.

  He was most certainly the first man she would turn to in times of trouble. Any kind of trouble.

  Beating him to the punch, she said as he reached her, “I knew you’d get us eventually. I made a bet with Sully. He owes me a hundred bucks.”

  “He didn’t think I’d get you?”

  “Not in less than five years. I guessed within three. So I win.”

  Bishop smiled faintly. “How have you been, Victoria?”

  “Fine,” she said mildly. “Until this morning. Still wondering if you had anything to do with that, by the way.”

  “Not one of my abilities,” he said, equally mild. “If I could summon psychics from thousands of miles away, I think I would have known about it before now.”

  “Then who—or what—did?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? One of them, at least. Are you ready to go up to the house?”

  “Yeah. Bag’s in the backseat. Do I lock up the car?”

  “Not unless you want to. Excuse me for a minute.” He headed toward the office end of the building, apparently to make or finalize arrangements, and Victoria remained where she was, watching others disembark from the jet, only two carrying bags like her duffel.

  She knew them, to varying degrees. Except the one bringing up the rear, carrying three bags in his large hands. He was very large all over, an obviously powerful man who looked like he worked out hard for a living and then tossed around granite boulders for fun. Big granite boulders.

  Miranda reached her first; she was carrying a single bag. “Hey, Victoria.”

  “Miranda. Who’s the big guy?”

  “I forgot you hadn’t met Galen. He’s SCU.”

  Victoria glanced past her to look at the big man again. “He doesn’t look much like a healer,” she said. She had always been interested in names and their meanings and origins.

  “You’d be surprised,” Miranda murmured. “If we’re leaving as quickly as I believe we are, I’ll introduce you up at the house.”

  “Yeah, I thought Bishop wasn’t wasting any time, at least not getting us to Base.” Then she looked past Miranda again, this time at the other woman she definitely recognized. “Hey, Olivia.”

  “Hey, Tory.” The only person Victoria allowed to get away with the diminutive of her name, Olivia was, at twenty-eight, two years older than Victoria, but at five-foot-nothing and petite, with copper hair that framed her heart-shaped face in a simple shoulder-length cut, large blue eyes holding a faintly startled expression, plus a childlike voice, Olivia had always seemed the younger of the two.

  An indignant feline howl from the carrier she held in one hand drew Victoria’s attention, and her smile widened. “I can tell Rex still hates to travel.”

  “He made a horrible fuss on the jet until Bishop talked to him,” Olivia confessed. “Then he settled down for the rest of the flight, I think. But he wants out, and I think he saw the choppers. He hates them even worse than planes.” She brushed a strand of copper hair away from her face with a small, fragile hand, an unconscious sigh escaping her.

  “Still the headaches?” Victoria asked with genuine sympathy, noting that the other woman’s pretty face was unusually pale even for her, and that the big eyes were darkened.

  “Yeah. And since this morning worse than usual. Miranda gave me a couple of pills when the jet picked me up in Vermont, and they knocked me out for most of the flight so I got some rest, but the pain was back when I woke up.” There was nothing of complaint in her childlike voice, merely a matter-of-fact acceptance of something she lived with virtually every day of her life.

  Victoria looked at Miranda. “Are we getting an actual healer to go along with us on this jaunt? I’m thinking we’ll need o
ne, and not just to help Olivia and Sully with their headaches.”

  “We’re getting the best in the unit, but Hollis and Reese won’t get here until sometime tomorrow.”

  “Hollis Templeton?”

  Miranda nodded.

  Victoria let out a low whistle. “Heard of her. A lot. And some pretty wild stuff even for us. According to the psychic grapevine, there isn’t much she can’t do.”

  “There are always limits, but it’s fair to say Hollis is still exploring hers, so we aren’t yet sure of which abilities she’ll end up with, or how strong they’ll ultimately become. In the meantime, we’re certainly hoping she can help with Olivia’s and Sully’s headaches—and any other painful problems that might come along.”

  Olivia set Rex’s carrier down on the ground, ignoring the profane feline muttering from inside it, and said, “How come everybody else hears stuff on the psychic grapevine? And how do you, Tory? Telepathy’s still not your thing, right?”

  “Right. No more than it’s yours.” Victoria smiled. “But this grapevine is the real sort with people—psychics—talking out loud and otherwise communicating via traditional channels. Usually on the phone. And there’s e-mail, at least for those of us who don’t short out electronics. Reno keeps in touch.”

  Olivia nodded. “Oh, that grapevine. She keeps in touch with me too. But I don’t remember her mentioning anybody named Hollis.”

  Victoria wasn’t surprised. Olivia was very nearly as fragile as she looked, in more ways than one, and no doubt Reno’s checking in with her had been more about making sure Olivia was all right than it was about passing on information.

  Victoria had always believed that Reno was a born caretaker, though she didn’t look it and seldom sounded it. It was also interesting that her first name, more commonly given to a Latin-American male child, meant “to rise again.” Like a phoenix. Except that a phoenix rose from the ashes of its own destruction, and as far as Victoria knew, Reno had never come close to being destroyed.