MIND READER (2 page)

The limbs looked like sneering gargoyles, twisted, gro
tesque and menacing.

“God, help me,” Caron whispered. “I’m suffering a
landslide.”

A horn sounded in a long, steady blast from in front of the corner store across the street. Her stomach muscles clenched. Seeking solace in common, ordinary things, she gripped the steering wheel hard and watched the wipers
sweep the windshield, click at the base, then sweep back
again. The store’s illuminated yellow sign flickered as the
power fluctuated. It read “2 Liter Cokes $1.29.” A car sped
past, kicking up a spray of water, and a kid hung out the
window yelling at a second guy who was getting into his car.
“Hey, Bobby, come on, man!”

She didn’t know either boy, but at that moment she knew their thoughts and feelings. Knew them physically. Bobby
was late for the basketball game. David, the one hanging
out the window, was ticked that he was missing the tip-off.

There was no solace.

The little girl’s image snapped back into focus. Caron felt
the child’s fear, the grisly sense of betrayal, and cringed.
She couldn’t ignore the images. Not now. Not ever. She had
to accept the inevitable. The images had come again, and
she was doomed to suffer them.

Every self-preserving instinct in her body screamed for
her to run. Yet she couldn’t. Whoever she was, this child was hurt and confused and afraid, and she was
not
going
to face whatever happened alone.

Caron straightened, slammed the gearshift into Drive, and pulled out into traffic, hoping her bravado would outlast the time it took her to drive to police headquarters.

“Anytime today would be just fine, ma’am.”

Caron jerked and looked back. A drop-dead-gorgeous
guy in a flashy black Porsche waved an impatient hand for
her to vacate the parking slot.

“I’m coming, not going,” Caron said, sliding the man a withering look and easing the Chevy alongside the curb.
Not even his looks could excuse his sarcasm.

The man nodded, then drove on.

“Charming,” she muttered, tugging her keys from the ignition. She snatched up her purse, then went inside.

Detective Hershel Sanders was in his same dismal office. Surrounded by gray metal cabinets and awful green
walls, and so cramped he couldn’t turn around without
bumping his little paunch, Sandy sat buried behind the mountain of files on his desk, an unlit cigar stub clamped
between his teeth.

According to Dr. Zilinger, Sandy hadn’t lit up since Jim Garrison dragged New Orleans into national focus, claim
ing Kennedy’s assassination was a political conspiracy. The
district attorney had lost his job, and because Sandy had agreed with him, he’d been demoted and left to swelter in
this hole ever since, punching the clock and waiting for re
tirement.

Caron plastered a smile to her lips, folded her arms
across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Still
hiding behind the clutter, Detective?”

Sandy looked up. His gaze, seen through his black-framed, half-moon glasses, hadn’t yet focused. A shock of
blond hair sprung out from his head. He’d been forking his fingers through it again. He should let it grow and ditch the
glasses and the stubby cigar. It’d take ten years off of him.

For a second, his jaw hung loose. Then he whipped off
his glasses and slapped his palm down on his desk blotter.
“Where’ve you been, kid?”

To the fiftyish Sandy, the twenty-six-year-old Caron
would always be the seven year old she’d been when they
first worked together. “Oh, nowhere special,” she said.

She knew she was being evasive, but she didn’t want to
share her “normal” life with him. She wanted to hoard
every moment of that time to herself. A normal life was all she’d ever wanted, and she’d had a taste of it. Now that the
images were back, her memories of normalcy were even
more precious, and more private.

She walked in—and saw that he wasn’t alone. A man pushing thirty sat scrunched up in a chair, his shoulders wedged between two file cabinets.
Big, brawny, beautiful—
all those words came to mind. His hands were fisted inside the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket. And the look on his face made his feelings clear. He didn’t like
her.

That set her back on her heels. When the surprise settled, she nodded in his direction. “Sorry I interrupted. I thought Sandy was alone.” Then she recognized him. He
was the guy who’d been driving the flashy Porsche down
stairs. Remembering his sarcasm, she frowned, not much liking him, either. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

He let his gaze slide down her length and linger on her
chest before returning to her face. “I’m a friend of Sandy’s,” he said, in a tone that told her he wasn’t im
pressed with what he saw. “A private investigator.”

“I see.” She flushed heatedly. Whether because of the intimacy in that look, or in anger because he’d so brazenly
perused her, she wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of both. If
they’d been alone, she’d have found out. But they weren’t.
Sandy was watching—avidly. She forced herself to be civil
and extended her hand. “I’m Caron Chalmers.”

He seemed reluctant, but clasped it. His hand swal
lowed hers; it was as huge as the rest of him.

“Yes, I know.” His grasp was firm, strong, and he didn’t
flinch, slump or look away. “Parker Simms.”

The man was gorgeous, one any woman could appreci
ate, but the emotions seeping from him were alien to her.
No one ever had looked at her with such raw animosity. But
why? A parking slot didn’t warrant this kind of emotion,
not even for a guy driving a Porsche.

They hadn’t met before; she was certain of that. A
woman wouldn’t forget meeting a man who looked like
him
—
and she’d
never
forget being looked at in the way he
was looking at her. Feeling crowded, uncomfortable, she
stepped back.

Sandy cleared his throat. “I thought Parker should be
involved in this.”

She darted a look at Sandy. He refused to meet her gaze.
Her insides started rumbling, but she forced herself to calm
down. “You told him about me.” She tried not to let it, but
resentment and accusation edged into her voice.

“I had to, Caron.” Sandy’s eyes held an apology. “For
both our sakes.”

Her purse strap slipped off her shoulder. She shoved it back. Why did every man in her life have to betray her?
Was there an invisible bull’s-eye drawn between her shoul
der blades, a sign that read “Men, Stab Here?”

“I’m worried,” Sandy said with a lift of his hand.

He
was
worried; she could see it in his expression. But she wasn’t sure whether or not his concern appeased her. Her phoning earlier had cued Sandy that she’d imaged a
victim. His calling in his detective friend could mean he
doubted that there was a case. It could also mean that he thought she needed a keeper. And a keeper she would not
tolerate. “I work alone.”

“So do I.” Parker’s voice was as cold as his chilly look.

She didn’t know what to make of his remark. “If you feel
that way, then why are you here?”

Before he could reply, the phone rang. Sandy didn’t an
swer it. His faded blue eyes flickered an uncertainty that the
smile he’d carved around the cigar couldn’t hide. “I asked Parker to come. I thought he could listen in and maybe help.”

Sandy was still ducking his phone calls—and he was
darned nervous, busying himself ruffling through an inch-
thick stack of pink phone messages on his desk. He’d
known that she wouldn’t like Parker Simms being here, and
he hadn’t been at all sure how civil she’d be about it.
Somehow that doubt made his having violated her trust easier to take. Still, she was feeling darned bitter.

Explaining her gift in the past had netted two effects. One
was her being used; the other, her being ridiculed. She didn’t care for an encore to either experience.

Working alone was easiest, best. Yet after what happened to Sarah, could Caron afford to turn down reliable
help?

Emotionally torn, she nodded toward the mystery man.

Parker Simms nodded back, but his expression didn’t soften. What was with him? Her having interrupted his meeting with Sandy couldn’t raise this much hostility any more than the parking slot could, especially considering Sandy had brought Simms here to hear what she had
to say. So what had she done to irk him?

S
he focused, trying to pick up on his emotions. Though they were strong and turbulent, she couldn’t peg them—or
the source of his animosity.

That surprised her. She cocked her head. But then, she wasn’t able to read everyone. With Sandy, the minute he
looked into her eyes, it was as if some magic shield slid into
place and hid his thoughts. She didn’t probe. It’d taken
years of working with him, but she’d come to trust him.
With Parker Simms, it was more complex than that, though
she couldn’t say exactly how or why...not yet.

Sandy stuffed the cigar into an overflowing ashtray he
kept on his desk for appearances, then stood, curled a beefy
arm around her shoulder, and squeezed reassuringly. “Dr. Zilinger didn’t tell me you were back in town.”

“I haven’t called her yet.” Caron hugged him back,
feeling self-conscious. Parker Simms had the most intense gaze she’d ever seen. And the most sinfully gorgeous gray eyes. Long, thick lashes and black-winged brows.

“Ah, then I was wrong.” Looking relieved, Sandy sat
down again, retrieved the cigar and lazily sprawled back.
The chair springs creaked. “This is a social call.”

She wished Simms weren’t here, wished she could talk freely to Sandy and openly explain the situation. Outsiders
just didn’t understand. For the most part, she supposed,
her gift frightened them—though she had a hard time
imagining Parker Simms being afraid of anything. The man
seemed more likely to incite fear than to suffer from it.

“I wish this was a social call, Sandy. Until three days ago,
it would have been.” She let him see the truth in her eyes.
“But not anymore.”

“What happened?” He rocked forward, picked up a pen
and held it poised over his blotter.

She looked at the scrawls in the margin, unable to watch
him during the telling, or at Simms during the objecting.
“Can we speak privately?”

Simms didn’t move. She hadn’t figured he would.

Sandy rubbed his jaw. “Parker’s here for a purpose,
Caron. I haven’t forgotten what happened last time. He can
help...if you’ll let him.”

He couldn’t help. For some reason, the man strongly
disapproved of her, and he made no bones about letting her know it. His body language was as expressive as a chalked
blackboard. “I work alone,” she reminded Sandy.

“I’m staying, Ms. Chalmers.” Parker glanced at his watch. “Accept it, and let’s get on with this.”

“Ease up, Parker.” Sandy frowned, then motioned to a
chair and softened his voice. “Come on, Caron. Talk to me.”

Caron stayed where she was. She hadn’t asked for Parker
Simms’s help. His hostility, whatever the reason for it,
wasn’t her problem, and she slid him a hard glare to let him
know it.

He didn’t so much as blink. Disappointed, she focused on Sandy. “Three days ago, the sensations started coming
back.”

“Sensations?” This from Simms, complete with a frown
in his voice.

“The feeling of being on the brink,” she explained. “Of
something big about to happen.”

“What?” Curiosity replaced the frown.

“I didn’t know, I just had the feeling.” She forced her
self to be patient, looked up at him, and immediately
wished she hadn’t. His grimace could stunt growth.

“But you found out,” Sandy said.

She nodded, then leaned back against the wall, lifted her
chin and stared at a water spot on the ceiling. “That afternoon. I was checking out at the grocery store. I handed the cashier a fistful of coupons. ‘Customers and their damn
coupons,’ she said.”