Touching Evil

"Wrong? I don't know if I'd call it wrong." Quentin drew a deep breath. "But I don't envy your Maggie, I'll tell you that."

John didn't question the possessive. "Why?"

"It explains a lot," Quentin mused. "How she's able to establish such a strong bond with victims, how she's able to so accurately draw what they see. Christ, no wonder it looks like magic to those around her."

"She's psychic?"

"It's not quite that simple, John. There's psychic… and then there's gifted. Or cursed. Did you see her face just now? She was in agony. Actual physical pain."

"Why? What was hurting her?"

"He had hurt her. The rapist. He attacked her, raped and beat her, took her eyes-and left her here to suffer." Quentin shook his head. "John, that's what Maggie was feeling. She was feeling everything Hollis Templeton felt in this room more than three weeks ago."

CHAPTER FIVE

Je

She hit possible pay dirt before Scott did, but since it was very late on a Saturday afternoon it took her another half hour just to track down a library still open for business.

"I understand the request, detective," the head librarian said, the confusion in her voice belying the words, "but we're locking the doors in ten minutes, -

"Police emergency," Je

As she hung up the phone and rose to her feet, Scott said sourly, "Oh, yeah, leave me with this, why don't you?"

"Any luck?" she asked, pausing by his desk and digging into her pocket for another ci

"All I've got so far is a growing list of stations with old files stored in their basements. Nobody really knows what they've got, and nobody's volunteering to go down and check, especially on a cold Saturday afternoon. And I can't say that I blame them." He raked fingers through his hair and peered up at her. "Calling it a day?"

"No, I'll be back in about an hour. I may have found a shortcut for us-or at least another source we can use."

"Well, bring me back a snack, will you? I missed lunch, and there's nothing here but stale sandwiches and some really stale donuts."

Je

"Beats me. He was at his desk a minute ago."

"If he gets back before I do, ask him not to leave for the night until he talks to me, okay?"

"Sure."

Je

It was a sudden sensation, a chill that crawled slowly over her body and raised the hair on the nape of her neck. What her mom had sometimes referred to as "somebody walking over my grave." It wasn't a commonplace feeling, and Je

A cop's instincts, Scott called it.

So what was it? The scene she studied was perfectly normal, a few cops moving in or out of the building, a couple of civilians walking briskly past on the sidewalk, not much else. A slight wind stirred the nearby trees, their bare limbs scratching against one another while the last dead leaves clinging to them rattled dryly.

Je

There was nobody there, of course. But as she put the key into the ignition, Je

Block-printed on the paper in a faint and rather unsteady hand were two numbers. Dates?

1894

1934

Je

Could it?

Was the earlier date another year during which other similar crimes had taken place? Was their brutal rapist copying crimes from long ago, choosing his victims to closely match doomed women some other monster had attacked and left for dead, adding only his own personal touch of blinding them?

If he was, why? What twisted motivation compelled him to at least partially re-create old, unsolved crimes? Because they were unsolved? Because he believed he, too, could commit his crimes and walk away undiscovered?

Could it be so simple?

That possibility was unsettling enough; what really disturbed Je

Who? And was this note an effort to help the police?

Or was it a direct and mocking challenge from an animal more hunter… than hunted?

"She's gone," John said as he rejoined Quentin in the chill, empty room at the top of the stairs.

"Told you she would be." Quentin moved slowly around the room, his flashlight pointed at the floor. Most of his attention seemed focused on what he was doing, but his voice was matter-of-fact. "Fight or flight. She couldn't fight, so she ran. I imagine she has a place she feels safe and reasonably secure. Home, probably. She'll be there. She'll need to be there, at least for a while."

John frowned as he watched his friend. The room still wasn't quite dark, and he could see Quentin fairly well. "Is that why you stopped me when I would have gone after her? Because she needed to get somewhere she felt safe?"

"And because I knew you'd push her."

"What are you talking about? Push her how?"

"Push her to tell you whatever information she might have gained in this room, information that could help us find answers. You're convinced she can help us find those answers, and your tendency will be to press forward without any loss of time, just the way you would in business. And I'm telling you that's the wrong tactic with Maggie. Like it or not, you're going to have to be very careful with her. She'll help us in her own time and her own fashion-and that's the way it's going to be."

"Why? Because she's gifted?"

"Pretty much, yeah. John, living with this sort of thing, most of us develop defense mechanisms to cope. If we have… understanding or at least sympathetic family and friends, the defenses tend to be simple ones. But if we feel too alone, too isolated and different from those around us, especially for most of a lifetime, then the defenses can be major and complex. I'd guess your Maggie belongs in the latter group."

"Isolated? She's surrounded by people who admire what she does," John objected. "Not one of the cops I talked to showed anything but respect and gratitude toward her. Hell, it was almost awe."