Kathleen Creighton: Danger Signals

He stopped walking, mentally gritting his teeth at the thought of what he was going to say next, and turned to face her. "Okay, how about this? Don't try to make sense of it. Just tell me what you saw. Uh, felt. Whatever."

She nodded, touched the fingertips of both hands to her lips and closed her eyes. "Fear. That's what he feels. He's afraid, like a child is afraid. And in a hurry. He must hurry…finish this. He wants it over with. He's not enjoying it. But he has to do it. Has to. He isn't seeing her. Or-he sees her, but she's all mixed up with…others. Other faces. I can't-"

"Other faces? His other victims, you mean?"

"I don't know…some of them, maybe. Yes, definitely some. But others…" She shook her head, opened her eyes and aimed them at him, and instinctively he threw up his emotional defenses to block against the pain and confusion he saw in them. "I don't remember seeing any of them at the briefing this morning."

"Could be more victims we haven't found yet…" He heard himself say the words, musing, half to himself, and couldn't believe it. His mind flashed a silent blasphemy.

She'd started walking again, but now she stopped and looked at him. "Uniforms. He's…I think he's afraid of uniforms."

Wade almost laughed, but snorted instead. Talk about obvious. Once again he'd almost bought it, whatever it was she was selling. "Cops, you mean? Well, he damn well better be," he said in the even tone he employed when he was on the verge of losing his temper. "Because we're going to nail this creep's ass."

Hopefully, he thought, before he kills anyone else.

Tierney stared at him. frowning a little.

Uniforms…cops…? No, that's not… it's something… something… Wait…I can't…

But it was gone, the emotions dissolving in her consciousness like smoke in the wind.

She studied the detective's profile, noting the narrowing of the eyes behind the dark glasses, the tension in the jaw. He was struggling with his disbelief, fighting hard to hold on to it. She didn't have to have The Gift to deduce that. But other than that…

I can't read him. He's shielding himself from me - which is proof he does believe, even if he doesn't know it yet.

Okay, except for that one moment, that blast of pure lust. He hadn't quite been able to shield that-few men could. She was used to that sort of response from men, but she didn't think she'd ever get over being embarrassed by it.

Probably she was just tired. Crime scenes always did that to her. The intensity of emotions-the pain, the fear, the rage and regret-sapped her energy the way a bout of the flu would, leaving her wobbly and light-headed. Utterly drained. She wanted-needed-to renew her soul. Maybe go up to the Rose Garden, to feed on the pure joy and simple beauty there. Or to the empty quiet, the complete absence of emotion that was her home so often these days…

The step was there unexpectedly, the step down from the curbing that separated the sidewalk from the parking lot. She didn't see it, wasn't ready for it, and it jarred the left side of her body all the way to her jaw. She stumbled and lurched forward, bracing for a humiliating fall. And instead felt a hand close hard around her upper arm.

At the same instant her mind felt the sting of profound emotional turmoil, like a slap in the face. It was a sense of loneliness and frustration and loss, and also of empty spaces, as if pieces of the man were missing, simply not there. It unnerved her, in that one brief moment before it was gone, and its going left her feeling oddly bereft and at the same time awed, as if she'd happened to catch a glimpse, just one silvery flash, of some extraordinarily rare and elusive creature.

"Are you all right?"

The detective was looking at her with that compassionate frown again, and she realized she had caught hold of his forearm and was clinging to it like a sapling in a hurricane. Lord only knew what he must have thought-that she'd injured something, sprained an ankle, probably.

She hastily let go of his arm and said. "Yes-yes, I'm fine-thank you-" her voice made jerky by the brushes and tugs she was making to her hair and clothing, setting herself to rights. "I didn't see that step. I'm sorry."

"No problem." His voice was the cop's, flat, devoid of all expression. So were his eyes, as he went on looking at her in that narrowed-down way cops have that can make even the most innocent of citizens feel guilty as sin. "Sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Really. I just… I think I'd like to go home now, if there's nothing else you…" He shook his head, and she drew a sharp quick breath of profound relief. "I'm going to need a ride, though-I came in a squad car. I'm sorry to bother you, but is there someone you could ask…?"

"I'll take you. Where do you live?"

"Oh, but you-I'm sure you must be very busy. I don't want-"

"It's no problem. I'm heading back to the shop anyway. Nothing more I can do here." He took a firmer grip on her arm and steered her to the left, away from the media trucks and waiting cameras.

He couldn't have said why he was doing this, not with any truthfulness. He told himself he wanted to ask her some questions, find out more about her and her so-called impressions. Never entertained the thought there could be any other reason for spending another minute in the woman's company.

She seems so vulnerable. Is it an act? I'm a cop, I should be able to tell. But I can't. What is it she feels when she looks at me? Does she know about -

But those thoughts he pushed firmly out of his mind and slammed and locked the door to make sure they stayed out.

Okay, so she's one hell of an attractive woman. And I'm a guy. Guys like attractive women, so why should I be any different?

Yeah, but she's not my type, he told himself, kicking that thought out the door, as well. He wasn't exactly sure what his type was, except for one thing: he liked his women sexy and fun and without complications. And while this one could probably pass muster on the first requirement, he had real doubts about the second. And as for number three, well…he was pretty sure complicated didn't even begin to describe her.

Neither of them spoke again until they were settled in the front seats of his unmarked gray sedan. She-what was her name? Started with a T. Terry? Tracy? No - something unusual. Damn.

"Where to, Miss…" He let it hang just long enough.

"It's Doyle. But please call me Tierney." She glanced at him as she clicked her seat belt into place, and he wondered once more if she'd read his mind and taken pity on him. But she didn't read minds…or claimed she didn't. "Or even Tee," she added, "if you wish. Some people do." Her half smile told him she knew the chances of him doing likewise were slim.

Which was maybe why he said, out of pure contrariness, "Okay, Miss Tee it is, then. I'm Wade, by the way. Wade Callahan." He turned in his seat to offer his hand. Did it out of long habit, then kicked himself for hesitating, for having second thoughts. For wondering whether it was "safe" to touch her, or if physical contact might open up some kind of psychic channel between them. Kicked himself all the more for even thinking those thoughts, knowing it meant he had to believe at least some of what she claimed to be able to do might be real.

Her hand was warm in his, small but vibrant, reminding him of a gentle but wary animal that had allowed him to hold it for one short moment in his grasp.

"Wade," she murmured, and there was a shimmer of amusement in her eyes. Eyes so clear and blue and…yes, normal, he wondered how anyone in their right mind could believe she had creepy gifts. The Sight-or whatever she wanted to call it.

He released her hand and was smiling crookedly as he wrapped his around the gearshift lever, wondering whether it was himself or her he was smiling at.