Christine Feehan - Murder Game

The others understood him, the terrible voices that drove him. Maybe he would have been okay if he'd stayed in the military, but somehow he'd lost control of his temper. Every day, it just seemed to escalate until he couldn't stop rampaging. One wrong word and he had to pound something; if he didn't obey the voices, the pain in his head was unbearable. The satisfaction of feeling his fist slamming into flesh was becoming too short-lived. Now he needed to take it all the way when this happened. He had to find someone to pour his rage into-but not her . Never her.

He gathered her into his arms, rocking her back and forth, trying to comfort her, trying to comfort himself. There was blood on his hands- her blood. He'd gone to three counselors, but nothing helped, certainly not the medicine they'd given him. If he touched her again, he was eating a bullet. He had to find a way to stop the rage that consumed him. His head hurt so bad, vises squeezing until he thought his head would explode. And the voices, whispering all the time, telling him he was nothing. And that one voice that never let up, not for a moment.

Angela, I'm sorry. Take Tommy Jr. and go to your parents. Get the hell away from me until I figure out what's wrong . He needed to say it out loud. She probably feared leaving him. And he was afraid too. If she left and he got angry, there was no telling what he'd do. He wept silently, terrified for all of them, but the pain in his head was relentless, and he needed to find someone to pound until the hurting stopped…

Tansy frowned. The faint whispers in his head held a familiar cadence. Was the puppet master actually taking part in driving this man to murder? He wasn't like the others she'd tracked. This man was ashamed and scared and filled with remorse. He was desperately fighting to keep from giving in to the madness. He had a wife and child. He didn't want to harm anyone, but he couldn't stop himself. The voice and the relentless pressure in his head caused terrible rages. Was the puppet master the voice?

"Don't," Kadan cautioned. "Don't give him any more to track you with." He watched her eyes, the way he always did. She was moving further away from him, the violet completely taking over the blue and the silver encroaching on the violet, until her eyes shimmered with that strange opaque that signaled she was deep inside the tracking lane.

Tansy didn't respond, didn't act as if she heard him. Her mind was completely focused now. He couldn't follow her, only read her thoughts, and she was on the thread of that voice. It was faint, the strand so thin, but razor-edge sharp, a bite cutting into the walls of Scorpion's mind, causing pain and enraging him with the relentless pressure. She stayed very quiet, letting her mind travel along the thread, careful not to disturb it until she found the second thread that led directly to her prey interlocking with the first.

Impressions swamped her mind. A shed. Benches and tables with cutting tools. A man sitting, his hands busy shap-ing the perfect piece. A masterpiece, museum-quality really. Few could ever top his skills in carving. Each detail so precise. He peered at the specimens gathered around him. Drawings. The live one in the glass cage. The dead one pinned to the table. Scorpions of various sizes. He needed this one perfect. It took work and discipline, but he had never minded either, rather he valued the traits.

This one had probably been a mistake, but he'd had no real choice at the time. Scorpion had maybe one to two more murders in him and then he'd probably kill himself. He didn't like making mistakes. He placed his tool on the table and moved it a couple of centimeters. Precise. Absolutely precise. Tansy drew in her breath sharply. The puppet master had OCD. His work shed was immaculate, every tool labeled and placed in an exact, designated spot. Nothing was out of place. Even the shavings were caught in a small container, so that not a speck was on the table or the floor of the shed.

This was his private residence and she doubted if it was on base. She tried to look around to see anything that might identify where he was. The longer she stayed, the better the chance of alerting him, but she wanted to give Kadan something more to go on.

She could make out windows, four panes darkened, but she could still see out. He must have been looking outside while he carved the ivory. He was humming off-key. And he was "pushing" at Scorpion, slashing at his mind with deliberate, painful strokes to provoke him. The man had no filters, and too much testosterone flooding his body, making him more aggressive than normal, his genetic altering deliberate.

A mistake. He made another careful cut into the ivory. He had chosen Tommy because he was already aggressive. His psychic talents were already strong as well, but like the others, Tommy had failed his psychological profile, not, like the others, due to his violent tendencies, but Tommy had them, buried beneath the surface. He'd thought he could bring the aggressive tendencies out and manipulate Tommy as easily as he did the others. He'd been wrong. Wrong . He detested mistakes and never allowed them, yet Tommy was living proof.

He should have listened to his instincts and waited just a little longer to find the right candidate.

Tansy stroked a finger along the back of the scorpion, following the movements of the puppet master's fingers. Up the curved tail, feeling each groove. There was something there. A watch . A very distinctive watch.

You're getting to be a nuisance. Or maybe you're just lonely. Are you lonely, Tansy? Tell me where you are. Talk to me. I tried to visit you, but no one was home. Are you going to be waiting for me?

Tansy forced down fear and stayed still, breathing in and out, following the pattern of Kadan's breath. Kadan was there in her mind; she felt him, yet he didn't yank her out of the situation as he always had done. He waited with her, believing in her, and that gave her the confidence to carry out her plan. She wanted to keep the puppet master talking, hoping he would make a mistake while trying to draw her out.

He believed himself stronger, a better tracker, but she didn't think so. He manipulated eight men, but he didn't track killers. She'd been doing it for years. His ego was going to be his downfall.

I know you can hear me. Are you enjoying our little game as much as I am? I've found out quite a bit about you. Things you probably don't know about yourself. I have access to several very secret files. I'd share if you were interested .

Deliberately she stirred, sending a vibration along the thread, somewhere between apprehension and curiosity, spinning her spider's web to catch herself a fly. The puppet master would want to talk. He'd never had the opportunity to show off before. This was his big chance. He couldn't let her live long, of course, but while she was alive, he could share his superiority. Someone would know.

Tansy let him make the connection stronger, sending his energy back along the thread to find her. And with his energy came more information. She saw the box on the table, the bold, precise lettering. James R. Dunbar.

Kadan opened his hand and dropped the scorpion. They had him.

Kadan sat at a small booth in the bar, Jeff Hollister and Gator across from him. Nico had already staked out the high ground just in case they needed backup. Jeff was a California boy, born and bred for surf and fun, with his bleached blond hair, dark tan, and ripped body. He looked at home in the bar, a trendy place overlooking the crashing waves below. Directly behind Kadan sat his prey, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper.

"You're always braggin'," Gator said aloud. "You're so full of shit. No one can hold their breath underwater that long, bro. Fifteen minutes, what a crock." Jeff hitched forward. "I heard of a guy, local legend around here, owns a scuba business. Rumor has it he can hold his breath easily that long."