Dream Eyes

  “Sure. But that’s not the big story about what happened in Wilby two years ago.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Turns out one of the research subjects in the Ballinger study, a guy named Zander Taylor, was a serial killer who specialized in stalking and killing people who claimed to be psychic. Until he arrived in Wilby, most of his targets were probably frauds—a mix of storefront fortune-tellers, tarot card readers, mediums and assorted scam artists.”

  A flicker of awareness arced across Judson’s senses. Something that might have been curiosity stirred inside him. It was the first time he had felt anything other than the weight of the gray since he had returned from the island. He took his feet down off the railing and stood.

  “Let me take a flying leap here,” he said. “This Zander Taylor wanted a challenge. He volunteered for the research study in order to find himself some real psychics to murder.”

  “You do know how the bad guys think,” Sam said. “You nailed it. He succeeded in killing two members of the research study before he tried to murder Gwen. Obviously, he failed but it was a near thing, and Abby says Gwen was badly traumatized by the attack. Now Ballinger’s death has brought back all the bad memories and vibes.”

  Another tendril of curiosity flickered through Judson. He looked down at the amber-colored crystal in his ring. The stone was glowing with a little energy in response to his slightly jacked talent.

  “How come we’ve never heard of Taylor?” he asked. “That kind of story should have been all over the news. I can see the headlines now. Serial Killer Stalks Psychics.”

  “Taylor never made the news because no one ever realized that he was killing people,” Sam said. “In the case of the Wilby murders, the first two deaths were attributed to natural causes. Taylor’s death was ruled a suicide.”

  Judson contemplated the restless, gray ocean. “What did the local cops say about the deaths?”

  “I’m told that the Wilby chief of police—guy named Oxley—had his suspicions but he couldn’t prove anything. That was fortunate for Gwen.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Gwen was the one who reported all three deaths,” Sam said. “You know how that would have looked to any halfway competent cop. The person who finds and reports the body usually goes to the top of the suspect list.”

  “And this morning she finds another body.” Judson whistled softly. “What are the odds, huh?”

  “You can see it from Oxley’s point of view.”

  Judson wrapped one hand around a wooden post and watched the summer storm sweep in over the ocean. “Okay, got to admit there’s an interesting pattern here.”

  “Evidently, when Oxley arrived at the scene this morning, he did not hide the fact that he doesn’t like coincidences.”

  “He really believes that Gwen may be responsible for all of the murders?”

  “He never could prove that there were any murders, but, yes, he has his suspicions. Gwen is in no immediate danger of arrest, but for her own peace of mind, she needs to find out what is going on. She knows Abby so she knows that you and I are in the psychic investigation business.”

  “We were in the business before I pretty much put us out of business,” Judson said.

  “We’ll find another client. Got to be more where that one came from.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious,” Sam said. “Losing our number one client is no big deal, given what we now know about said client.”

  “Except that, aside from the security work we do for Coppersmith, Inc., it was pretty much our only client. And we didn’t lose the client. I destroyed the whole damn agency.”

  “Not a problem,” Sam said. “We’ll find a replacement. At last official count, there were close to a thousand different government agencies, departments and offices involved in the U.S. intelligence community—and a couple thousand more private contractors. I’m sure we can find one that is interested in the services of a consulting firm that specializes in paranormal investigations. But for now, we need to do something about Gwen Frazier’s case.”

  The wind sharpened. So did Judson’s senses. This time it would be different, he thought. This time Gwen needed him. She would not be able to treat him like one of her psychic counseling clients.

  “All right, I’ll drive to Wilby and take a look,” he said.

  There was a short pause on the other end of the call.

  “One more thing you should know about Gwen Frazier,” Sam said finally.

  “Yeah?”

  “She sees ghosts,” Sam said.

  “What the hell?”

  But it was too late. Sam had already ended the connection.

  Judson stood quietly, letting the energy of the oncoming storm and the prospect of seeing Gwen again stir his senses.

  After a while, he turned and went back inside the cottage to pack for the long drive to Wilby.

  Ghosts were no big deal. He saw a few every night in his dreams.

  Four

  Gwen sat at a small table in the tearoom of the Riverview Inn and watched the dark-haired man with the eyes of a raptor enter the lobby. An eerie storm of amber lightning flashed and sparked in the atmosphere around Judson Coppersmith. The disturbing heat in his aura had not diminished since the disastrous evening in Seattle. His dreams were growing more powerful.

  The effect that Judson had on all of her senses had not lessened, either. A near-violent rush of awareness, an effervescent excitement mingled with dread and an uncanny sensation of knowing, shivered through her. The same intuitive certainty that had both compelled and alarmed her that night in Seattle came crashing back. This is the one.

  The paranormal fire that surrounded Judson roared in the cozy lobby of the old Victorian inn. But Gwen knew that she was the only one who could see the flames. The handful of guests seated in the wingback reading chairs did not look up from their books and magazines. Riley Duncan, the front desk clerk, did not take his eyes off his computer screen.

  Trisha Montgomery, the proprietor of the Riverview Inn, was seated across the table from Gwen in the tearoom. She, too, was oblivious.

  “Between you and me, you should try to stay out of Nicole Hudson’s way while you’re in town,” Trisha said. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That woman isn’t right in the head. You know as well as I do that she wasn’t what anyone would call stable two years ago. I can tell you for a fact that her mental health hasn’t improved in the past two years.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gwen said. She suppressed a small shudder. “I have no intention of crossing paths with Nicole if I can avoid it.”

  “That won’t be possible, not if you hang around for more than a day or two,” Trisha said dryly. “Wilby is one very small town.”

  Trisha was in her late thirties, an attractive woman with short, curly brown hair that framed a fine-boned, heart-shaped face. Gwen had met her two years earlier at the start of Evelyn’s research study. At the time, Trisha had been a newcomer to Wilby, a newly minted multi-millionaire who had made her fortune in the high-tech world. She had retired at an early age to do what she had always dreamed of doing—run a quaint B&B in the Oregon woods. To the surprise of just about everyone in town, she had made the old inn a year-round success.

  Gwen tried to pay attention to Trisha, but her eyes kept returning to the lobby where Judson was approaching the front desk. She knew that the storm of amber light that blazed around him was a vision conjured by her psychic senses. Normally, she kept her talent tamped down when she was around other people. But today she was tense and very much on edge and therefore not in full control. Her other sight had flared a moment ago when Judson had opened the door. Even though she had been anticipating his arrival, seeing him for the first time after a month of thinking about him far more often than was good for her had rattled her senses and raised her talent.

  What on earth was going on in Judson’s dreams that caused her to perceive him like this—a hard, relentles
sly determined man walking through a storm of hot amber light?

  She had a talent for analyzing dreams, but she needed context to comprehend what her intuition was trying to tell her. Judson was still very much an enigma, and given his reaction to her offer of dream therapy that night in Seattle, she had a feeling that he intended to remain a mystery.

  He must have sensed that he was being watched because he stopped before he reached the front desk and raked the small lobby with a single glance, sizing up the handful of guests the way a predator considers potential prey.

  She knew that he had jacked up his talent a little because at that point some of the guests belatedly became of aware of something dangerous in their midst. A few of them raised their eyes from their magazines or broke off conversations long enough to glance around, instinctively searching for whatever it was that had raised the hair on the back of their necks.

  But as was so often the case, they chose to ignore the primal message that their senses were sending. After all, this was a warm, safe place, and the newcomer looked well dressed, calm and controlled. He made no overtly threatening moves.

  The guests went back to their magazines and conversation. Perhaps their intuition had told them what had been clear to Gwen when he walked through the door. They were safe. None of them was Judson’s intended prey today. He was here for her.

  With an effort of will, she forced her vision back down into the normal zone. The surreal ultra-light fire winked out, but the sense of recognition was as strong as ever. This was the man she had been waiting for—not just since she had made the phone call to Abby—all of her life. Her pulse beat faster. Her fingers tightened on the teacup.

  Pull yourself together, woman. She had always been a dreamer, but she had learned long ago not to get carried away by her own dreams.

  At that instant, Judson looked at her through the open French doors of the tearoom. Another unsettling jolt of awareness thrilled her senses. She was pretty sure that she saw a flash of heat in his topaz eyes.

  She inclined her head in what she hoped was a cool, polite acknowledgment of his presence. He returned the small gesture—equally cool and polite—and continued on to the front desk to check in.

  Gwen turned her attention back to Trisha.

  “Is Nicole still running the florist shop?” Gwen asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Trisha said. “She’s really good at the business, even if she is a bit nutty. Handles all the weddings, funerals and high school proms in the area. She does the weekly arrangements here at the inn.” Trisha angled her delicate chin toward the floral display that sat on the round table in the lobby. “But last month I stopped by her shop to discuss some changes I wanted to make in the flowers that go into the rooms. The door of her office was open. I’m telling you, the inside looked like some kind of weird shrine to that man she was seeing two years ago, the one who went over the falls.”

  Unease twisted through Gwen.

  “She’s still carrying the torch for Zander Taylor?” she asked, just to be certain.

  “I’m afraid so.” Trisha made a face. “And she still blames you for his death. As far as I can tell, Zander Taylor was the only serious relationship she has ever had. She’s great with flowers and animals, but not with people. I thought you should know. You might want to be careful around her.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” Gwen said.

  “I see you booked a week with us for yourself and this Judson Coppersmith,” Trisha said, probing gently.

  “I need time to arrange Evelyn’s funeral and take care of her legal and business affairs,” Gwen said. “Judson is going to help me.”

  Trisha frowned. “No offense, but why you? Didn’t Evelyn have any family?”

  “No. She left everything to me.”

  “I see. I hadn’t realized that.” Trisha gave her a commiserating smile. “You probably won’t have any trouble selling the house she lived in here in town, but what on earth will you do with the old lodge out at the falls, the place she called her research lab?”

  “I have no idea,” Gwen said truthfully. “I suppose I’ll hire someone to clean out the equipment and the instruments she installed and then try to sell the place. I’m hoping I can get things wrapped up in a week, but there’s a lot to handle.”

  “This Judson Coppersmith you’re expecting is a friend?”

  “Not exactly, more of a financial adviser,” Gwen said. She was proud of the smooth way that came out. She had been working on Judson’s cover story all morning. “He’s had some experience with this sort of thing, settling estates and such.”

  Trisha’s expression cleared. “Good, because I think you’re going to need some help. I doubt that Evelyn paid much attention to her business affairs. All she cared about was her research.”

  “I know.”

  “She was a real eccentric in a town full of that particular breed, but I’m going to miss her.”

  “So will I,” Gwen said.

  Trisha cleared her throat. “Sara, one of my housekeepers, says there’s a large cat in your room.”

  “Evelyn’s cat, actually. Max. I couldn’t leave him there at the house. There’s no one around to feed him. I didn’t know what to do with him, so I brought him here with me. I hope that’s not a problem. I brought his litter box with me. I’ll pick up some cat food later.”

  “It’s okay.” Trish smiled. “I allow pets.”

  Judson had finished at the front desk. He walked through the doors of the tearoom, a leather bag in one hand. His profile suited his hawklike eyes, Gwen thought, all sharp planes and angles. There was a prowling, muscular grace in his stride. He wore khakis, a gray crewneck pullover and low boots. The unusual amber-colored crystal in the black metal ring on his right hand caught the summer light streaming through the window. For a heartbeat, she could have sworn that it glowed, as if infused with some energy. Just like his eyes, she thought.

  Judson stopped at the table and pinned her with his bird-of-prey eyes.

  “Hello, Gwen,” he said.

  “Judson. Nice to see you again.” She managed a bright, welcoming smile. “You made good time. This is Trisha Montgomery. She owns the inn.”

  “Welcome to the Riverside Inn,” Trisha said, smiling warmly.

  “Thanks,” Judson said.

  “I understand you’ll be staying with us for a few days while you help Gwen settle Evelyn Ballinger’s affairs,” Trish continued.

  Gwen knew a rush of panic. She had not had time to brief Judson on the cover story she had concocted.

  Judson looked at Gwen, utterly unfazed, his brows elevated ever so slightly. “That’s right.”

  Gwen breathed a sigh of relief and flashed him an approving smile. He had handled the situation very smoothly. As well he should, she thought. He was a security consultant, after all.

  Trisha got to her feet and took her computer bag off the back of the chair. She hitched the strap of the bag over one shoulder. “If you two will excuse me, I need to have a chat with my cook. Please let me know if I or anyone else on the staff can help in any way.”

  “We’ll do that,” Judson said.

  Trisha went briskly toward the kitchen. Judson lowered himself into the chair across from Gwen. He set the leather bag on the floor near his feet.

  “So, we’re here to settle Ballinger’s affairs?” he said, speaking in very neutral tones. “That’s our story?”

  “Well, it’s not like I can announce that we’re conducting a possible murder investigation, now, is it?” Gwen said. She spoke crisply, authoritatively. It did not require psychic intuition to know that with a man like this a woman had to take charge right at the outset and stay in charge. Guys like Judson Coppersmith were far too accustomed to giving the orders.

  “Probably best not to bring up the word murder yet,” Judson agreed. “You’d be amazed how that subject tends to upset people.”

  “I realize we can’t discuss it in public. The room I booked for you is next to mine on the third floor. The
re’s a connecting door so we can talk privately without being seen coming and going from each other’s rooms.”

  “Wow,” he said, his voice still perfectly neutral. “Connecting doors.”

  She was starting to get flustered. “The inn is a little more expensive than either of the two motels in town, but it’s actually a good bargain when you consider that we get breakfast and afternoon tea.”

  “Afternoon tea?” Judson repeated thoughtfully. “Will there be scones and clotted cream?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be picking up your expenses, of course.”

  Something that looked suspiciously like amusement came and went in his eyes. “I’ll keep track and make sure you get a detailed accounting when I send you my bill.”

  No doubt about it, he was laughing at her.

  “I realize that you consider this case very low-rent compared to the jobs you’re accustomed to handling for some no-name government intelligence agency. But Abby assured me that due to some unfortunate circumstances on your last mission, you are currently without a client and that you would give this investigation your full attention.”

  Judson’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Rest assured you have my full attention, Gwen Frazier.”

  A middle-aged woman in a white pinafore apron appeared at the table. Her nametag read Paula. She handed Judson a menu and beetled her brows in a severe manner.

  “It’s almost four o’clock,” she warned. “Tearoom closes at four. We’re out of sandwiches and cakes. I think I’ve got a couple of scones left, but that’s it.”

  “Just coffee, please,” Judson said.

  “Huh.” Paula was obviously disappointed that Judson was not going to argue about the closing time, but she recovered quickly. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Black,” Judson said.

  Naturally, Gwen thought. How else would a man like Judson Coppersmith take his coffee?

  Paula eyed Gwen. “More green tea?”

  “Please,” Gwen said.

  “Heard you’ve got Evelyn Ballinger’s cat upstairs in your room,” Paula said.