Torn (Second Sight)

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Note from the Author

  Copyright

  TORN

  A SECOND SIGHT NOVELLA

  Book 2

  By Hazel Hunter

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prentiss had practiced this three dozen times. Even so, there were butterflies in his stomach. It was always like that with live performance. You only had one chance.

  Here she comes.

  Though the carpets weren’t yet in, the new surgery lounge and locker rooms were nearly finished. Prentiss had narrowed in on the area quickly when he’d heard the construction noise and realized that work stopped every weekday at four pm. It was virtually empty after that. But a few of the medical students, like the pretty one now approaching, used it as a shortcut across this wing of County USC.

  Like him, she was dressed in a white lab coat. But, unlike him, she didn’t have the letters ‘M.D.’ after her name. Angela Caras wasn’t a doctor yet. He saw her glance at the embroidered name on his lab coat: Lawrence Garner, M.D., Internal Medicine. She was giving him a polite smile as they passed each other when Prentiss let his briefcase open and fall to the floor.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, as the collection of pencils, pens, and junk mail tumbled out between them. “Here,” she said, stooping over them. “Let me help.”

  The hypodermic needle in his lab coat pocket was ready to go. He checked in both directions. Latex gloves already on, this was the moment for which he’d practiced.

  “Thanks,” he said, bending over her.

  Quickly, he withdrew the syringe and sighted the position on her neck where he ought to miss the carotid artery. If he could do this right, the Methohexital would work in seconds. If he didn’t, the sedative could take minutes. He’d prowled patient rooms after nurses exited and managed to pick up a number of different pill cups, shots, and bags of fluid. He’d taken everything, not sure what anything was. But a quick search of the internet revealed that he’d only managed to pick up one sedative, though it was a good one.

  As he’d done with the orange at home, he quickly jabbed and injected.

  “Hey!” Angela screamed, immediately pulling away, trying to stand, but stepping on the hem of her lab coat.

  Prentiss dropped the syringe, grabbed her by the hair, and quickly covered her mouth. Using all his weight, he easily overpowered the petite brunette, forcing her to the ground on her side, straddling her. Quickly, he checked both directions, just as she grabbed the hand on her mouth and pulled. The soft brown eyes seemed to bulge and Prentiss had to wonder if he’d screwed up the shot completely. But she didn’t pull very hard and though she tried to kick her legs, the movement was uncoordinated. With rapt fascination, he watched her slowly succumb. First, the writhing stopped, then her hands slipped from his. Though she tried to keep her eyes open, widening slightly with a final effort, her lids finally closed. Prentiss didn’t waste any time.

  He rolled her to her stomach and yanked the white lab coat down her back and off her arms. He ran with it to the row of lockers behind him, threw it into the seat of the wheelchair he’d brought, and wheeled it back to Angela and locked it.

  He picked her up under the shoulders, dragged her back into a kneeling position, and then moved in front of her. He knelt and bent low, putting his shoulder to her midsection as she slumped forward. As he stood, he held her around the waist and lifted. Though it wasn’t elegant, he managed to get her hips high enough to land in the chair with a heavy thud.

  The transport wheelchair seemed to dwarf her but it would have to do. He’d brought it from the set for the sole reason that it had a headrest with straps. None of his trips to County USC had revealed more than the usual wheelchairs used with patients who were conscious.

  Quickly, he placed her feet on the footrests and put her hands in her lap. From the back, again lifting under the shoulders, he settled her down more evenly. Finally, he secured the seatbelt, pushed her head back into the headrest, and also strapped that down. In moments he’d scooped up the contents of the briefcase, hung it from one of the handles, and released the brakes.

  Prentiss took a moment to catch his breath and check his watch. Three minutes. An excellent performance, if short. He grinned and felt the tug of the fake goatee and prosthetic nose. Without hurry, he turned the chair around and headed back the way he had come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Despite the fact that it was midnight, Gavin “Mac” MacMillan wasn’t asleep. He quickly picked up the cellphone and saw that it was Ben calling. That couldn’t be good. It was midnight here in Virginia but for Ben Olivos in Los Angeles, it was still past working hours. Even an FBI director got nights off. He hit the answer button.

  “Ben?” he said.

  “Mac,” came the familiar voice. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “No problem,” Mac said. “What is it?”

  Mac didn’t bother to explain that, ever since his time in Los Angeles, he hadn’t slept well. Instead, the norm had become a call with Isabelle and then hours lying in bed thinking about her.

  “There’s been another abduction,” Ben said. “Another student.”

  Mac sat up and turned on the brass lamp with a tug on the chain.

  “Where?” Mac said.

  “USC, from the hospital, she’s a medical student.”

  “A pretty brunette about five foot six?” Mac said, feeling the muscles in his shoulders start to tighten.

  “You got it,” Ben said.

  Mac knew this had to be hard for Ben. Only a few weeks ago, his own daughter had nearly been a victim of the serial killer that Mac had dubbed the Priest. It had taken Mac’s work as an FBI profiler and Isabelle’s gift as a psychic to find and rescue Ben’s daughter.

  Though Mac still found it strange to think of Isabelle’s ability as real, he had been convinced and also captivated. Delicately beautiful and incredibly sensual, Isabelle de Grey had filled his thoughts ever since. He’d been about to suggest that he could fly her out to Virginia but now it looked like he was heading to L.A.

  “All right,” Mac said, throwing off the blankets. “I’ll make a couple calls and head to the airport.”

  • • • • •

  “You’re what?” Isabelle exclaimed into the phone, thrilled at the mere thought of seeing him.

  “It’s not all pleasure,” Mac said quickly.

  “Oh,” she said, deflating a little. “But still…”

  “I can’t wait to see you,” he said, his low voice almost growling.

  She grinned again. The last time they’d been together was just over two weeks ago and yet it felt like forever.

  “I can’t wait to see you too,” she said quietly.

  Mac had been able to stay another day after Esme had been rescued. But despite having never visited L.A., he hadn’t been interested in leaving her apartment.

  “I can’t wait to touch you,” he said lowly.

  An image of his naked body, glistening with sweat, powerful muscles flexing below her, the feel of him inside…warmth flooded between her legs. There was a reason she hadn’t permitted herself those memories. But now, Mac would be here tomorrow.

  “I can’t wait to be with you,” she whispered, carefully avoiding the word ‘touch.’

  They both knew that was impossible.

  “I don’t know what time tomorrow,” Mac said. “We’ll be at the family’s house.”

  Isabelle blinked as
though she’d woken from a dream.

  “Family’s house?” she said.

  “There’s been another abduction. It looks like the Priest.”

  A chill ran down Isabelle’s spine. The Priest: the man who’d demanded ‘the psychic’ be left on the case; the man who’d tortured Esme, Ben and Anita’s daughter, so they could hear her scream; the man who’d intended to kill her but who’d panicked before he could. And, from what Mac had told her, a serial killer who’d tortured and killed previous victims in a similar way. Using her ability to read objects and people, Isabelle had seen the Priest.

  “Isabelle?” came Mac’s voice.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly, the joy suddenly gone, replaced with a feeling of dread.

  “It’s a different case,” Mac said. “We’ve got a better chance to catch him this time. Don’t dwell on it.”

  “Right,” Isabelle whispered. “Don’t dwell on it.”

  There was a moment of silence as she did exactly that.

  “All right,” Mac said quietly. “I’ve got to get to the airport. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Isabelle nodded, though Mac couldn’t see.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Prentiss pushed the rusty, metal gurney down the wide but darkened hallway. The lantern near Angela’s feet lit the way.

  Linda Vista Hospital hadn’t been used for medicine in decades. Instead, the owners of the property rented it out to television and film projects. He’d actually worked here as an extra a few years ago. The nice thing about it was the relative seclusion despite being close to downtown L.A. and the fact that it looked so creepy at night that few people trespassed.

  He passed a derelict infant incubator, no doubt a leftover prop like the gurney he was using now. He’d been forced to leave the wheelchair at County USC when someone had unexpectedly wandered too close to his van. But it was good to work the gurney, just to get the feel of it. It wanted to turn sideways and he had to exert some force to get it to roll straight.

  Is this what orderlies in hospitals have to deal with? No wonder they’re so big.

  He smiled as he passed open rooms whose purpose he could only guess. The linoleum was missing in many sections of the floor. Old metal chairs lay toppled in some of them. A bare metal bed support that tilted up at both the foot and the head occupied another room. The walls were missing patches of plaster or wallpaper. The windows near the lobby were all boarded up but the swinging double doors that sectioned off parts of the long corridors were all open. It was magnificent. It felt just like a hospital.

  Although it’d been something of an accident, using the church location last time when he’d been a priest had really leant a sense of reality to the whole thing. It had totally upped his game and he’d given one of the best performances of his career. Only one thing had gone wrong: Isabelle de Grey.

  Yes, she’d brought the media to him, the press desperate for any information they could have about him. But, had it not been for her, he would have had his kill. There always had to be a kill. Otherwise, what was the point?

  His hands tightened on the gurney.

  Without a kill, he’d been forced to move again quickly. And that was the fault of Isabelle de Grey. He smirked. He had something very special in mind for Isabelle. He glanced down at Angela, still unconscious. But first things, first.

  • • • • •

  Mac finished briefing his assistant in the car. Though he’d kept Ben up to date on everything involving new information on the Priest, Special Agent Sharon Lyang had other duties in Quantico. Part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, like him, Sharon was an excellent instructor, specializing in crisis management and communication. Because of that, she also made the ideal command post leader. And she’d been part of the team that had thwarted the Priest when Ben’s daughter had been abducted.

  Likewise their driver, Sergeant Dixon from the Los Angeles Police Department, had also been on the team. As he pulled into the driveway of the family’s home in Hancock Park, on yet another sunny spring day in Los Angeles, Sharon took off her sunglasses.

  “Does the family know it’s a serial killer?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Mac answered. “Ben’s been on the scene, as you can imagine.” Mac checked up and down the street. A few black and whites and half-a-dozen SUVs that looked like they were part of the Bureau’s fleet. “No news vans?”

  “Not so far,” Sergeant Dixon said as he parked and turned off the engine. “And that’s how Director Olivos and the Chief want to keep it.”

  Mac couldn’t agree more. It’d been a circus last time, though they had managed to use it to their advantage. Having Isabelle publicly resign from the case had really seemed to rattle the Priest. As they walked up the tiled path to the house, Mac noted the view of the Hollywood sign at the end of the long, straight street, palm trees swaying in the breeze. According to the reports that Ben had sent, Dr. Caras, the missing girl’s father, was head of oncology at Cedars-Sinai Hospital, only a few miles away.

  In an eerie reminder of Ben’s living room, the large front room of the Spanish style house was full of policemen and agents. Sharon immediately headed to a small group of agents huddled around two computers set up on a folding table. Ben stood up from an upholstered chair at the far end of the room where, in a little group of furniture clustered around what looked like an antique brass table, he’d been sitting with the family. Ben waved him over as the father stood.

  “And here he is,” Ben said. “Mac MacMillan. The best profiler the FBI has ever had and the man who saved my daughter.” Ben clapped him on the back as they shook hands. “Good to see you, Mac.”

  “You too, Ben. Though I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

  Mac held out his hand to the father, who ignored it.

  “I want to offer a reward,” the man said. “Right now.”

  Dr. Caras looked to be in his mid-fifties, was trim, dark complexioned and dark-eyed, in keeping with the Greek last name. He was also apparently used to being in charge.

  “We’ll take that under advisement,” Mac said, unruffled by the snub or the ordering tone in the man’s voice. “But for now, we’re keeping the media out of this. Images of Angela are already at all the airports, trains, and bus stations, plus everywhere at the hospital where she was last seen.”

  “A reward will help to find our daughter!” his wife yelled, as she stood up and next to her husband. Like Dr. Caras, she was dressed immaculately, accessorized, her hair and make-up perfect. Appearances obviously meant a lot, Mac noted.

  “It only makes sense,” the doctor agreed.

  “You might be surprised to find,” Mac said evenly, “that most people who really help an investigation, simply want to help. They’re not motivated by money. What we don’t need is to start a panic about the Priest or to court crank calls.” He glanced at Ben. “I’m sure Director Olivos has told you what we’re doing and that we have every intention of finding Angela. Every resource that we have is focused on her this very moment. Let us do our jobs.”

  “And what is that exactly?” asked Dr. Caras, his voice getting louder. “What are you doing?”

  “What I’m doing right now is profiling,” Mac said, letting his voice get louder in response. “I’m building a view of the victim based on how I see you two behave.” He paused to let that sink in. “She didn’t arrive punctually for dinner, which was very unusual, and she’s following in her father’s career choice. I’ll go out on a limb and say that choosing another career and being late for dinner are frowned upon.” Angela’s mother had been about to protest. “More to the point, Angela is probably someone who can be characterized as intelligent, a good student, without a boyfriend, someone who follows the rules, is quiet, seems well-liked but doesn’t have many friends, and likes to spend time in her room.” The two of them stared at him, stunned. “My assistant, Special Agent Sharon Lyang,” he pointed at her, “is going to be coordinating a command post from h
ere. She’s our eyes and ears for any and all data that’s coming in from investigators out there working right now. I’m going upstairs to take a look at Angela’s room to see if I can find a journal, a diary, or a computer that might shed any light on how she might have been left vulnerable to an abduction.”

  Again, neither of them had anything to say. Mac turned to Ben.

  “Sharon’s got the latest notes on my profile of the Priest,” Mac said to him. “Could you go over it with the Caras’s while I’m upstairs and see if there’s anybody in their lives or Angela’s that might remotely match?”

  Ben smiled at him–a knowing little smile like a proud uncle.

  “Sure thing, Mac,” he said.

  • • • • •

  Isabelle checked her dress in the mirror. She’d changed three times before finally settling on it and she hoped Mac would like it. At least I know he likes me in dresses, she thought as she examined herself in profile. Her accidental read of him had been the first inkling that he found her attractive, in particular, her shapely legs.

  She smiled at the memory though the smile quickly faded.

  Though the reading had been quick she’d sensed roiling emotions beneath his calm exterior: anger over Esme’s abduction, grief connected to a dark-haired woman, and concern for herself after she’d read something of Esme’s.

  Isabelle looked down at her bare hands. Though she liked wearing dresses, the real reason they were almost mandatory was that they went better with the gloves than jeans. Not that people didn’t stare. The gloves always drew some looks. But wearing them with clothes that were too casual was strange enough that everybody looked. She glanced at the open dresser drawer where she kept her collection, arranged in pairs, different colors to match her outfits. Then she stared down at her hands again.