Stefan couldn't tell if this woman believed him. That was unusual. He could almost always read people instantly, but FBI Special Agent Katie Rush was a whole different thing. Too controlled, too interior, too cool. He felt a compa.s.sion buried deep inside her, at odds with her thousand-yard police-issue stare, but that didn't tell him what she really thought, especially about him.

She probably thought he was nuts, he concluded. He would have, in her shoes. He tried not to take it personally.

G.o.d, that last vision had been horrible. His pulse was still racing erratically, his heart pounding. He'd thought for a second that he'd been about to pa.s.s out, when he'd come hurtling back from that b.l.o.o.d.y, catastrophic vision, and it had only been Katie's voice calling his name that had held him upright.

That, and the humiliation of pa.s.sing out in front of one of the most attractive women he'd ever seen, much less talked with. She looked fiercely capable; he doubted she'd be much impressed by him doing a face-plant on the table.

She looked up from her menu and gave him a little crook of her lips-could barely be called a smile, but somehow, it transformed her. It softened her face and made it luminous, almost angelic, and woke an appealingly wicked glint in her eyes. He fell in love with her eyes, and the one corner of her mouth that pulled higher than the other. And her skin. She had gorgeous matte-satin skin.

She'd said something. He blinked. "Sorry?"

"Pie. What kind of pie?" she asked.

He cleared his throat, retrieved a sticky plastic-laminated menu from the holder on the table and pretended to be interested in the choices. "Sharing food. Does that make this some kind of a date, Special Agent Rush?"

When he glanced up, she was still smiling, but it had changed slightly, a Mona Lisa echo he wasn't sure he could decipher. She focused on her menu while he was still wondering. It confused him. What was she waiting for? She didn't seem like the kind of person who would sit around for a leisurely dinner if she had hard information about where two abducted girls might be, or at least, had been recently.

Of course. She hadn't believed him, or at least, she was waiting for confirmation one way or the other. She'd gone out to ask the cops in the cruiser to dispatch someone to the gas station. So this was a stalling tactic. And she was charming him to disarm him, in case he might decide to get up and try to leave before she had hard facts as to his truthfulness. And/or sanity.

He had to admire her for her dedication.

Well, since they were being so polite, he might as well get a decent piece of pie out of it.

The tired-looking waitress wandered over, and Stefan ordered a slice of coconut meringue pie, and-as Katie suggested-milk. He expected Agent Rush to order a salad-it seemed to be de rigueur for women on dates, even pretend dates, these days-but then again, she was from the Midwest, not SoCal.

She went with a hamburger. Once the menus were out of the way, she avoided his gaze, choosing to meticulously line up her hard-used tableware and inspect the interior of her coffee cup, from which all coffee had been safely extracted.

She was just-he hated to think it about someone as potentially, catastrophically dangerous as an FBI agent-cute.

And you're thinking like this to keep your mind off of other things, some traitor voice in his head reminded him, and just like that, the whole vision was back, vivid and violent.

Fear. Darkness, then pain as the girl was forced to her knees and then to her feet. She'd run, she'd gotten loose and run but her balance was off because of the bonds on her wrists, and she'd tripped and gone sprawling on the still-warm concrete, bathed in the harsh white lights of the gas station awning.

The attendant had ducked out of the booth and yelled, "Hey, you leave her alone!" She'd whimpered deep in her throat, unable to scream or warn him, and had to stand and watch, just watch, as one of the black-masked men slipped up from the side, extended his arm, and a sharp pop echoed through the desert.

Blood spattered the plate gla.s.s window as the attendant fell. No time for the horror because hands were dragging her, off balance, back to the van....

He jerked and pressed his hands flat against the table, furious with himself. He'd never had this problem. He'd become a street magician because it was fun, it was challenging and it required razor-sharp mental and physical control, and now he was reduced to a trembling wreck. Couldn't cut a deck one-handed to save his life.

"You all right?" the strict G.o.ddess across the table asked. He didn't look up.

"Fine," he said. "I'm fine. So what's the next step? What do you do now?"

"It's already being done," she said. "You've given us a lead. Once we verify it, we'll be moving quickly to seal off the area and isolate the van. We're trained for this. It's going to be okay."

"Only you don't believe me," he said, very quietly, and looked up to meet her eyes. "Right?"

Silence. Katie was good with silence; she used it as a tool. Growing up in the Blackman household had been an exercise in coping with controlled chaos, day in and day out. Silence...wasn't part of Stefan's life experience.

She finally said, "I want to believe you, Mr. Blackman. But I can't afford to blindly trust anyone. There are two girls' lives at stake."

It was, he had to admit, a valid point, but it was still irritating. In his entire life, Stefan had never not been trusted by a woman. Of course, he wasn't generally trusted by cops, and an FBI agent was a kind of white-collar cop, but still, it rankled. Women liked him.

Maybe he was losing his touch.

"If you'd just listen to me, we could do it faster," he said. "I could try to tell you exactly where the van was."

She looked intrigued. "How? Psychometry?"

"What's psychometry?"

"Touching an object that belongs to one of the girls."

The waitress came back to refill their cups; Stefan leaned back to avoid being splashed. "You know more than I do about it. Not my bag."

"So what exactly is your bag?" A cop's question, delivered casually but no less important for all that.

"Didn't you check me out already?"

"I know that you're from Los Angeles-"

"Venice Beach, actually. I just work in Los Angeles part of the time."

"-and that you're involved in film and television."

"As a consultant."

"And I know that you've had a couple of arrests for fraud," she said.

Ah. He'd been wondering when that would come snarling up out of the dark to bite him in the a.s.s. She delivered it with perfect poker-faced impartiality, and waited for his reaction.

He nodded. "True," he said. "I have been. I work the streets in VeniceBeach as a magician-not a psychic. But from time to time, really obnoxious people won't take no for an answer, they want me to be psychic on demand. Those guys deserve a first-cla.s.s prognostication, don't you think? Something to tell them how to invest their money wisely? It's not my fault they buy some dog of a stock and get burned. Being wrong's not illegal. Besides, all of the charges were dismissed."

She thought it over. "If you don't bill yourself as a psychic, why do they seek you out for advice?"

"Because the Blackman name comes with baggage." He sighed. "My grandfather was a famous psychic. So was my grandmother. My mother is a psychic to the stars, she's got quite a reputation. Even my dad is a pet psychic. So I'm a psychic by a.s.sociation, and some people just won't take 'not interested' for an answer. When they get pushy, I sting. But it's not fraud. It's their own greed getting the better of them."

Which, he was well aware, was the basis of any con game, but he hoped she could see the difference. He couldn't tell. It unsettled him that she was so self-contained.

"Mr. Blackman-"

"Stefan."

She didn't blink. "Mr. Blackman, let's just say that regardless of how you explain it now, it doesn't exactly enhance your credibility. You see that, don't you?"

He gave up. "Yes." Luckily, he was saved from groveling by the arrival of her hamburger and his pie. Both looked surprisingly delicious, and he was shocked to feel a sudden wave of hunger, verging on starvation. They fell to eating without another word, except for a few subvocal moans of pleasure from Agent Rush, which made him forget a little bit about the horror show inside of his head and wonder what it might take to get her to moan like that over things other than food. A very diverting question.

He was tempted to moan over the pie, which was excellent, but he didn't want her to think he was easy.

They'd both taken the last bites when her cell phone rang. Stefan swallowed and sat back, tense and still, as Agent Rush flipped open her phone. "Rush."

Silence as she listened. He couldn't tell what was going on in her head, though he could read a confusing turmoil of feelings radiating like a fever. He wanted to touch her. Touching her would make things clearer. There might be other side benefits to it, too....

She said a terse thanks and hung up. Stared at him with those lovely, impenetrable eyes.

"Mr. Blackman," she said, "the Highway Patrol tell me that there is a dead man at a Conoco station at the Smurr exit. Shot in the head. They estimate he's only been dead half an hour, at most. I'm going to need you to come with me." She signaled the waitress for the check.

"And the van?" he asked.

"The Highway Patrol are working to close off all exits from the area. They know their job. We'll get them, but I may need your help."

"So you believe me."

"Let's just say that I don't see any other way you could possibly have known what you did, other than what you're telling me. That doesn't mean I completely buy into the whole psychic theory, just that I'm willing to listen to what you have to say."

He felt a surge of hope and adrenaline. Somehow, some way, this was a good thing. He was sure of it.

Chapter 7.

T hey drove in silence, watching scenery flash by in the street-lit darkness. Next to Katie in the pa.s.senger seat, Stefan Blackman looked uncomfortable-justifiably so. This ride was probably a good reminder of how fast "material witness helping the police" could turn to "prime suspect."

Even with lights and sirens clearing the way, it took nearly an hour to get to the Smurr exit, but it was visible a long way off from the cl.u.s.ter of police cars, flashers lighting up the night. Stefan looked pale in the red-blue-red glow, and his throat was working nervously.

"You can stay in the car if you want," she said, and he looked over at her and smiled. It wasn't a very convincing smile.

"No, I can't," he said. "Look, maybe I can be of some help. I feel like I should at least try."

Katie pulled the sedan in with a metallic squeal of brakes and coasted to a stop just inches from a Highway Patrol vehicle.

"You don't have to," she said. The engine ticked as it burned off heat, and the entire car shook with a sudden gust of wind that blew a dry rattle of sand over the hood. "This isn't your job."

Stefan didn't look at her. He looked stone-faced, staring at the confusing blur of flashing lights, the busy knot of people behind the fluttering crime-scene tape.

"Guess it is now," he said and got out of the car.

The air was cooling fast, dry and thin as it stung sand in her face. Katie took a breath and turned toward the Highway Patrol officer who was approaching.

"FBI?" he asked, scanning her top to toe. She nodded and produced credentials without being asked. "You want to see the body?"

"First, tell me what you've done to find the van," she said.

"How'd you know it was a van?" he asked and doffed his hat to smooth back his thick, iron-gray hair. He had a face as creased and brown as a leather bag, and his name tag said MENCHACA. "We just found that out on the surveillance tape."

"I had some tips." She didn't look toward where Stefan was standing. He looked ill at ease enough without any help from her.

"Good for you. We don't have the plates, but we've got the make and color from the camera. We've already set up stops-Hawkins! Get me a map!"

"Sir!" Another officer set off at a trot and returned about a minute later with an accordion-fold laminated map that he spread out over the hood of the cruiser.

"We set up stops here, here, here and here. Problem is, there's lots of farm roads, back roads, rough trails, though I wouldn't call that d.a.m.n van any d.a.m.n off-roader-they could go around us if they have half a brain. I don't have the manpower to cover every cow path from here to the border." Menchaca shook his head. "Kidnapping, huh? That's what the Glendale PD said."

"Two young girls," Katie verified. "At least one of them saw the shooting."

Another head shake, world-weary and grim. "A shame."

"Could I take a look-" she glanced quickly at his rank, indicated by the pins on his collar "-Captain Menchaca?"

"Sure. Forensic team's still en route, so don't touch and stay outside of the tape."

She shook hands and met Stefan's eyes, then indicated with a fast jerk of her head that he should follow her. Which he did, though not exactly willingly. She could almost hear the extra weight of dread in his footsteps.

She stopped at the fluttering yellow border. Behind her, Stefan took an audible breath and moved up to join her there.

Like all crime scenes, it looked oddly staged. Human brains just didn't like to compute things like this and kept returning it as false; the blood looked black where it was drying on the concrete, a muddy crimson nearer to the head. The smears and drips on the gla.s.s behind retained a backlit red tint.

The body was simply that-a body. Rubber, slack, utterly devoid of any sense that it had ever moved at all. The dead bothered Katie for different reasons than they did most of her colleagues; it wasn't the mess, or the smell. No, it was this pathetic sense of the body simply no longer being human. Of having been demoted to a colder, crueler status.

She cataloged the head wound, automatically figuring angles and trajectories and how far the shooter might have been when the bullet was fired. An inexact science without the caliber of bullet, but she thought she was pretty close.

Stefan hadn't made a sound. He was staring at the dead man-boy, really-with lightless, fixed eyes, and his skin had a tinge of dirty ash beneath the natural golden brown. He'd jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.

"Is it what you saw?" she asked, although it was a foregone conclusion. He nodded jerkily, and for the briefest second there was fury in his eyes, incandescent and startling.

"You're going to catch them," he said, low in his throat. "Right? You're going to catch them and make them pay for this."

"This, among other things," she said. "Let's do what we can to keep the list from getting any longer."

He nodded and closed his eyes. She waited, focused on him and nearly oblivious to the police milling around her, the radios crackling, the strobe lights flashing. His face was tense, and his eyes moved back and forth under the lids, as if searching....

He relaxed, after a full minute, and looked at her bleakly. "I'm not getting anything," he said. "Maybe she's asleep."

He was, she saw, hoping rather than knowing for certain. It had to be Teal he was seeing, she thought suddenly. He'd described Lena Poole, so his visions were coming through the eyes of Teal Arnett. Teal was the one with innate psychic abilities.

"You let me know the second you feel anything coming from her, right?"

He nodded. She spun away from him, walked away from the circuslike chaos and dialed a number on her cell phone.

"AthenaAcademy, Rebecca Claussen speaking," came the response after two short rings.

"It's Katie Rush," she said. "Our kidnapping's gone up to kidnapping and murder." As soon as she said it, she realized how it sounded, and hurried on to say, "It's neither one of the girls. A gas station attendant who saw Teal trying to escape got shot."

Rebecca muttered an obscenity that revealed a rich experience as a military wife, back in the day. Katie wholeheartedly agreed, although the FBI code of conduct didn't include airing that aloud.