Torn (Second Sight) Read online

  Such a public place. The Priest is getting cocky. He squinted at the turning ferris wheel. Overconfidence would bring mistakes. That was inevitable. But whether it was in time to save Angela was another thing. Her time was dwindling.

  “I want that phone traced ASAP,” Mac said to one of the technicians. “Point of sale, payment method, interview the cashier. And collect everything here out to a few yards.”

  This had been wasted time and Mac had to confront the possibility that that may have been the point. It was time to get to County USC.

  • • • • •

  Though Isabelle had waited at the house during the wild goose chase that had led to the beach, Mac had insisted to Ben that she accompany him to the hospital. His rationale had simply been to replicate the search for Esme, the two of them working together, since the Priest obviously wanted her there. Of course Ben had required little convincing since her presence at the house obviously irritated him.

  Sergeant Dixon had dropped both her and Mac at the main lobby of the medical center and gone to park the SUV. It was the first time they’d been alone since he’d arrived and Isabelle found, to her consternation, that Mac had nothing to say to her. He’d asked for directions at the information desk, they’d ridden the crowded elevator to the fourth floor, and now he simply walked at her side without so much as a sideways glance.

  “So is our relationship a secret from us too?” she finally said. “Don’t we even get to talk? Or are you going to wait until the end of the day and just call me?”

  Quickly, Mac took two long strides to a door labelled ‘Employees Only.’ With a turn of the knob and a quick check inside, Isabelle found herself being tugged into a tiny room full of towels, sheets, and folded dressing gowns stacked neatly on white shelves.

  As the door slammed closed, Mac whirled toward her.

  “Is that what you want?” he said hotly. “For me to just call you like I was in Virginia?”

  Despite his angry tone, she couldn’t stop the frustration of the day from bubbling up inside her.

  “What would be the difference?” she yelled. “You act like I’m not even here!”

  “Do you think that’s how I want it?” he yelled. “I can’t just turn it on and off like you!”

  “Like…me?” she sputtered.

  “Look at you!” he yelled, stepping closer. “Dressed like that, I can barely think straight!”

  “Like…” she yelled, as it dawned on her what he’d said. “What?” she finished, confused.

  “So, should I call you?” he said, stepping in and grasping her around the waist. “Is that what you want?” His eyes bored into hers as the hard steel of his arms crushed her to him. “Is that what you want, Isabelle?” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me.”

  “No!” she gasped, blinking. “No, that’s not–”

  Mac’s mouth engulfed hers, stifling more words. With a hungry urgency that his cool exterior had denied, he kissed her hard and began to walk her backwards. His lips pushed into hers with a savage twist, his tongue immediately stroking her lips and pressing into her mouth. There was barely time to respond as Mac pushed her backward, his tongue sweeping inside her, his lungs taking the air from hers. Finally her hands found his neck and she hung on as the endless and devastating kiss threatened to overwhelm her. Breath poured from his nostrils and the hard muscle of his chest pressed into her breasts as her back hit the wall. Her fingers wound into his hair as her mouth struggled to keep up with his. Heart pounding in her ears, her lungs burned without enough oxygen. But her tongue tangled with his and her lips sought him out in a groping desperation that was beyond her control.

  Then Mac’s hand was on her thigh, slipping upward beneath her dress. Her body quickly tensed and she held her breath as his warm fingers raked higher, landing on the thin fabric of her panties. Her shocked gasp ended the fevered kiss as Mac cupped her mound.

  • • • • •

  Mac ran his fingers into the cleft between Isabelle’s legs. As she widened her stance, his stiffening arousal pushed at the confines of his briefs. Despite the fact that he knew someone might come through the door at any moment, he couldn’t stop. For days on end he had thought of seeing her, kissing her, touching her. And as he gently squeezed her entrance, Isabelle’s body shuddered and she moaned, as ready as he was.

  He put his forehead to hers, their heaving breaths mingling, as he stroked her through the flimsy cloth and she moaned again.

  The taste of her, the feel of her, and even the exquisite sound of her, low and breathy–it was like a drug. His mouth fell on hers again. Soft and pink, her lips throbbed beneath his, their sensual cling drawing him in, even as an alarm began to sound in the back of his mind.

  There’s no lock on the door. Stop.

  But instead of stopping, his palm pressed into the downy softness of her mound, his fingers probed the warm juncture of her thighs, and he squeezed. Her moan vibrated against his mouth and the sweet rush of air from her nostrils flooded over his chin. As her lips parted, his tongue immediately plunged into her, searching and thrusting, even as his arousal swelled and strained in his pants.

  I could take her. Here and now.

  The days without her suddenly felt like months. Yes, he could take her now, and then later, all night and all day. With a long and lingering rub, Mac massaged her entrance again and found that she was moving with him, following his hand, staying in contact. Her mouth opened to him completely, his tongue lashing hers, seeking a satisfaction that he knew wouldn’t be found there. Only the warm and wet center of her would satisfy his hunger. Only being inside her would slake the driving need that urged his hips to move.

  But now the alarm in his head sounded loudly. He was on the brink of not being able to turn back.

  Angela is still missing.

  His mind struggled to regain control of his body but he was torn.

  Stop. Stop now.

  But Isabelle’s fingers left his hair, her hands swept down his chest, and landed hard on his hips. With a quick jerk, she pulled them together and suddenly the flat of her tummy was pressing along his shaft.

  The feeling was electric and he reflexively squeezed the moist place between her legs, to feel her hips immediately pivot and press into his hand. Her movement was seductive, pulsing, an invitation that was unmistakable. But as his arousal jerked in near pain, Mac suddenly pulled away. Their mouths separated with a loud smacking sound and Mac forced himself back.

  “No,” he ground out through clenched teeth. Isabelle’s eyes flew open, the shock clearly registering in her face, her gloved hands holding nothing but air. “No,” Mac said again, even as he looked down the length of her body, the curve of her breasts, and that place between her rounded hips where he’d just been. “Angela is missing,” he hissed. They had a job to do and Angela’s life depended on it.

  Isabelle put a hand to her mouth, covering it, as she shut her eyes. After several long moments she opened them. As she nodded and dropped her hand, she pushed away from the wall. Mac was careful to take another step back. Touching her again could only end one way.

  “You’re right,” Isabelle whispered shakily, taking a moment to get her balance. “You’re right,” she repeated, as if to convince herself.

  Finally, she raised her gaze to his. Her beautiful, amber eyes glittered with unshed tears and the pink flush of arousal still suffused her cheeks. Mac balled his hands into fists and took another step back.

  Isabelle stood up straight and shook out the skirt of her dress before smoothing it down. Then, averting her eyes, she walked past him, put her hand on the doorknob and paused.

  “I’ve missed you, Mac,” she said quietly, without turning. “God, how I’ve missed you.”

  Then she was gone.

  • • • • •

  “And you haven’t seen a priest in the vicinity?” Mac asked.

  Brian Harkness scowled at the question, as had everyone else that Mac had questioned.

  It’d taken Mac a
lmost an hour to settle down after nearly losing control with Isabelle. He hadn’t even thought to check himself in a mirror. Dixon had handed him a handkerchief with a single word.

  “Lipstick,” he’d said.

  But as the questioning of Angela’s classmates and instructor had drawn out, Mac was back to profiling. Six people in total, he’d asked them to wait in the hallway as he questioned each one in turn. At the bottom of the small lecture theatre, Brian was the last.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t even know if the hospital has a chapel.”

  It was the same sentiment echoed by the other residents, almost word for word. They had also all agreed that Angela was probably the best student in their group and that she’d left as soon as the core lecture had ended. Not one to stick around at the end of the day or head to the Beer Garden with the group to unwind, she seemed nice but no one really knew her that well.

  “And did you happen to notice which direction she headed when she left?” Mac asked.

  “Just down the hall,” Brian said, shrugging.

  Mac already knew that Angela’s car had been found in the parking structure and that heading ‘down the hall’ lead you in that direction, though there was no direct route.

  “I’d like to help,” Brian said, hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. “But I really don’t know her and she left like she always did.”

  Although victimology was the totality of personal information about a victim it really came down to how various aspects of their life might have contributed to them becoming a victim. There was nothing to suggest that Angela was particularly vulnerable: she was emotionally stable; she was intelligent; her life was full, even busy. Despite having an overbearing father and choosing to follow in his profession, Angela’s family situation was solid. As with Esme, the Priest had simply targeted a young, pretty brunette who he could easily subdue. He’d been clever and efficient and hadn’t left a trace and it was obvious that planning went into every abduction and then kill.

  And the kills were always the same. He started with a stab to the knee, then he twisted the knife and sliced all the way up the thigh, not stopping until he’d reached the pubic bones. But there it ended. Though Mac had no doubt that the Priest was sexually motivated after his incest slip on the phone during Esme’s case, he couldn’t understand why the mutilation stopped just short of sexual organs–typical in such cases. Only Esme’s severe dehydration and the fact that the priest thought he’d been on the phone too long saved her. Though she might have bled out from the savage gash in her knee, her blood had actually been thick enough to flow slowly.

  “Are we done?” Brian asked, a bit petulantly. “I don’t mean to be rude but I’m meeting some people.”

  “Sure,” Mac said. “We’re done.”

  A fellow student is missing and any detail that you can remember at all could be the one to crack the case but, sure, you have people to meet.

  Mac followed Brian up the steps to the door. As Brian pushed through without so much as a backward glance, Mac saw Sergeant Dixon waiting but he was alone.

  “Where’s Isabelle?” Mac asked.

  “One of the residents mentioned that they have lockers, just down there,” the sergeant said, pointing. “There’s a lounge too.”

  Though Mac looked down the hallway, it wasn’t a lounge that he saw, it was a police officer. He walked with the steady gait of a man on patrol and he’d clearly noticed both Mac and the sergeant. Though his uniform consisted of dark green pants and a tan shirt, he was definitely police.

  What hospital has policemen who patrol? There’d been one in the lobby behind the information desk, but that was normal.

  Mac promptly took out his badge and flagged the man down.

  “Special Agent MacMillan, FBI. May I have a word?”

  The middle-aged man smiled amiably and came to a stop in front of Mac.

  “Officer…,” Mac said, reading his name tag, “Dadashian.” He was Armenian, with dark eyes and curly, black hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. “I wasn’t aware the hospital had police officers on patrol.”

  “Oh yes,” Dadashian said, lightly grasping his utility belt with both hands and bouncing on his toes. Mac noticed he was carrying a Glock and that both his badge and shoulder patch said County of Los Angeles, not city. “Ever since the shooting,” Dadashian continued. “Ninety-four was it? Or ninety-three?”

  “I think that was 1993,” Sergeant Dixon said. “A disgruntled patient shot and killed three doctors before giving up.”

  “Really,” Mac said, not particularly interested in the inciting incident. But where there were security guards, especially armed police, there would be other safety measures.

  “Are there security cameras?” Mac asked.

  “Absolutely,” Dadashian said.

  Both Mac and Sergeant Dixon searched the ceiling, looking up and down the hallway.

  “Not here,” Dadashian said. “Mostly places where the public can gain access to the hospital. Entrances and exits. The emergency room.”

  “And the parking structures?” the sergeant asked, quickly understanding the direction that Mac was going. Whether or not the Priest had taken Angela in the parking structure, the Priest still had to get to his own car.

  “Some,” Dadashian said. “Most. The private security guards watch the monitors.”

  Mac was already taking out his phone.

  A private security firm, the Los Angeles City Police like Dixon, and also the County Police like Dadashian, and yet no one had asked for the tapes–probably because there was so much overlap.

  “Sharon,” Mac said when she picked up. “I need a detail down here at County USC ASAP. As many pairs of eyes as we can get. We’ve got security tapes.”

  • • • • •

  “May I ask you about the gloves?” said the young woman who had escorted Isabelle.

  Like the other residents, Anandi Patel wore a white lab coat, which she was now removing.

  “Of course,” Isabelle said, lifting the locking mechanism and opening the door to Angela’s locker. “Through the sense of touch, I psychically read the pasts of objects and people. I wear the gloves so I don’t inadvertently do a reading.”

  Anandi stopped what she was doing.

  “You’re a psychic?”

  Isabelle looked into the empty, gray locker and frowned.

  Of course. The police have already been here. And knowing Ben, I won’t be allowed to read any of Angela’s objects at the house.

  Isabel slowly closed the door to find Anandi staring at her.

  “I’m sorry,” Isabel said quickly, trying to remember what Anandi had said. “Yes, I’m a psychic.”

  “Working with the FBI?”

  To that, Isabelle wasn’t quite sure what to say. Yesterday, she would have said yes. Today, she didn’t really know.

  “On and off,” Isabelle replied.

  Anandi cocked her head.

  “Hmmm,” she said. Then, as though she were filing the bit of information away for later consideration, she simply turned away and hung the lab coat in her locker. “Fascinating.”

  But as she removed her backpack, picked up the combination lock she’d initially removed, and closed the door, Isabelle watched her lift the narrow, metal, latching mechanism.

  Angela’s possessions might be gone but she must have touched the door latch at least once a day. Unfortunately, so had many others.

  Though Isabelle knew what had to be done, she inwardly cringed. Objects in public places were a daunting read. So many lives had glanced off them and left their mark. She glanced around at other closed doors. And these are doctors. Their very business centered around disease and death on a daily basis. Isabelle stared at Angela’s locker door handle but, as she did, she recalled Angela’s anguished scream. Isabelle had nearly screamed in response. Though she’d continued to say ‘hello’ into the phone, what she’d really wanted to do was run from the room. No matter how bad r
eading the locker would be, it wouldn’t be what Angela was enduring.

  Without another moment’s hesitation, Isabelle undid the small, snap closure at her wrist, removed the linen glove, and laid her fingers on the door handle.

  Her surroundings disappeared and the contents of the locker took over her vision. Hands reached in to take the lab coat. ‘Angela Caras’ was embroidered in a blue script. Angela had liked that. Hallways in the hospital raced by and her feet hurt, the pumps too tight in the toe. Rounds were endless. Sick people everywhere. Boring lectures. The end of the day. Put the coat away. Rows of beige lockers. Isabelle felt her fingers tighten on the handle. Dinner with the parents. Hit the books. Sadness for the geriatric patients. Memories gone. Lives disappeared.

  Isabelle let go of the handle and rocked backward. Her gloved hand reached out and found the closed door as she sucked in a huge breath. She steadied herself there for a few moments as the gray haze of the reading gradually vanished and her eyesight returned.

  “Can you hear me?” Anandi said. Isabelle blinked at her and realized Anandi’s fingers were touching the inside of Isabelle’s wrist. “I was talking to you. Did you not hear me?”

  “No,” Isabelle managed to say as the images from the reading flashed in front of her eyes.

  Anandi nodded, letting go of Isabelle’s wrist as Isabelle sat on the wood bench behind her.

  “It was almost like a trance,” Anandi said. “Except that your heart rate was quite elevated. If you had a cardiac condition, that would be a problem.”

  But Isabelle wasn’t really listening as the snapshots of Angela’s life slowly slotted into a timeline, arranging themselves in backwards order. The same locales and people registered. Rounds in patient rooms. Other medical students. Instructors. Nurses.

  But no priest. No one who resembled him, with or without the white collar.

  Angela’s routine was remarkably repetitive. She parked in virtually the same spot every day and…Isabelle glanced at the lockers around her again. Gray. But the lockers that Angela had passed were beige.