Blood Ties

CHAPTER 2

“WEST,” REESE DEMARCO REPLIED matter-of-factly. “I’d finished searching my grid and was heading back when I heard the shots.”

Of course it would have to be him. Hollis abruptly remembered that DeMarco was, among other things, telepathic, and she made rather a production of rising to her feet and brushing off the knee of her jeans.

“There was a bear,” she explained briefly. “We scared it off. Diana went to report while I waited here.”

“Ah.” He looked down at the remains, his coldly handsome face as usual utterly without expression. He was dressed as casually as the rest of the SCU team was today, in jeans and a white shirt underneath a lightweight windbreaker, but the informal attire did nothing to soften the almost military crispness of his stance and movements, that truly visible sense of considerable strength and the training and ability to know how best to use it.

Hollis had seen that in other ex-military types, but in DeMarco there was something just a little bit… excessive… in his straight posture and almost hypersensitivity to his surroundings. He seemed to her too alert, too ready to explode into action. He made her think of a cocked gun, and she had no idea whether a dangerous hair trigger lurked inside him.

She couldn’t see his aura unless he allowed her to.

He wasn’t allowing her to.

“I gather the bear discovered these remains?”

She shoved the oddly disjointed thoughts aside. He’s a telepath, remember? Don’t let him into your head. Not that she had any kind of a shield she could use to keep him out if he wanted in. Dammit. “Yeah.”

“Is that what brought you two so far off the trails?”

“Not exactly.”

His gaze shifted, pale blue eyes fixed intently on her face. “You know, we are on the same side, Hollis. You don’t have to be so guarded with me. I’m not trying to read you.”

She wondered if that meant he wasn’t reading her—or simply didn’t have to try in order to read her. She didn’t have the nerve to ask. “Was I being evasive? Sorry. Diana and I weren’t following the bear, we were following a spirit who led us to this area. Then we found the bear. Which had just found what was left of this body.”

“That must have been an interesting encounter.”

“You could say.”

DeMarco returned his dispassionate attention to the remains. “Probably female, probably on the young side. Blond. Great teeth. Her hands were bound behind her back and there’s no sign of clothing, so highly unlikely this was an accidental death. Most likely a sexual assault, though whether that was the intent from the beginning is impossible to say. That’s as far as my crime-scene and forensic knowledge can take me.”

“About the same for me. Except that it seems obvious she’s been out here longer than the male victim.”

“Yes. The bear wasn’t the first scavenger to find her.”

Hollis didn’t like the silence that fell between them, so she filled it with what amounted to thinking aloud. It was becoming something of a habit with her during investigations. Because, after all, with telepaths always underfoot, what the hell….

Besides, she wondered if he’d agree with her conclusion.

“This body was left—what—a good fifty yards off the nearest trail?”

“About that.”

“Place like this, nobody’s likely to be riding or hiking. The trees and underbrush would hide anything left here from the air even now, without full summer foliage.”

“Once it greens up, the kudzu would just about ensure anything left here would be hidden from two feet away. In any direction.”

Hollis nodded. “This is a fairly level spot, but the slope is steep above and below it. Not all that easy to get to. Between the terrain and the wildlife, the chances of discovery are virtually nil. Or would have been, if we hadn’t been led so far off the beaten paths. So…”

“So, unlike the other body, this one was not intended to be found.” DeMarco considered for a moment. “I wonder which is the most significant—that he was meant to be found or that she wasn’t.”

That angle hadn’t occurred to Hollis. Still thinking out loud, she said, “The killer—assuming it was the same killer, of course—couldn’t have assumed we’d search this far out after finding the other body.” She frowned. “I don’t like two assumptions in one sentence.”

“One’s a negative,” DeMarco pointed out.

“Does that matter?”

“Maybe. It’s not a wrong assumption, I’d say. In fact, the location of the other body should have guaranteed police focus would have been away from this area. And even with our expanded search, it’s well outside the grid. There’d be no reason to imagine any of us would have found this body.”

“If the killer knows police procedure, sure. If it’s the same killer.” She paused, then said, “Are you suggesting the guy on the trail could have been intended as a distraction, to prevent anybody from finding her? Because it seems to me she was a lot less likely to be found if we hadn’t been here in the first place, combing the area looking for evidence in another crime.”

“Maybe our killer is very paranoid. Or maybe he couldn’t risk even the chance that we might find this body.”

“Because he has a connection to her? Because she wasn’t a random stranger to him?”

“Could be.”

“Then why not just do a better job of disposing of the body? He could have buried her.” Hollis didn’t know why she was arguing with DeMarco; his possibilities made as much sense as her own did.

“Not out here. Too much granite to end up with anything but a uselessly shallow grave. And where there isn’t granite, the roots of these trees would make digging by hand difficult and time-consuming if not impossible.”

“There are easier places to dig.”

“Granted. But maybe he was short on time. Maybe he had to get rid of the body in a hurry.”

“Okay. But—” Hollis felt it before she saw any sign of it. Tension, so sudden and powerful that it was like a live current in the air. Then DeMarco turned his head, looking at her, almost looking through her, and she saw his eyes change in a heartbeat, his pupils dilating as if he had been thrust without warning into pitch-black darkness.

For the first time in months, she was able to see his aura radiating outward at least eight or ten inches from his body, and it was unlike any she’d ever seen before, distinctly unlike his normal reddish-orange high-energy aura: In this moment his aura was a deep indigo shot through with violet and silvery streaks.

She barely had time to grasp all that before she realized he was lunging toward her. Even as he knocked her off her feet and carried her to the ground, she felt something tug at the shoulder of her jacket and heard the distinct, weirdly hollow craa-aack of a rifle.

Diana did have an almost uncanny sense of direction, a talent she had discovered only in the last year or so, but her physical conditioning and endurance, unlike that of most of the other team members, were still considerably under par.

She hated that.

No matter how many times Quentin or Miranda reminded her that she was playing serious catch-up after spending almost her entire adult life in a senses-dulling haze of various medications, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she should have been… further along by now. Physically stronger, at the very least.

“You’re stronger than you know,” Bishop had said, only a couple of weeks before.

Yeah, right.

The truth was that she had drifted through her life, completely detached, uninvolved in… anything. Diana honestly wished she could believe that all the doctors who had tried one medicine or therapy or treatment after the other had done it only because they’d had her best interests at heart and sincerely thought she suffered from some unnamed mental illness. But what she believed was that her father was a wealthy, powerful man, and what Elliot Brisco wanted, he got.

He’d wanted his only daughter’s life under his control. And though he still claimed his actions stemmed from love and concern, Diana had come to the conclusion that he had been driven as much by that need to control what was “his” as by a deeply rooted fear of anything he didn’t understand.

Such as psychic abilities.

Diana tried to shove the painful musing aside, wishing her father hadn’t intensified his efforts in the last couple of months to try to convince her one more time that she’d made a mistake in joining the FBI. And, especially, the SCU.

It was no accident, she thought, that he had been applying more pressure just when she was becoming involved in her first field assignment.

Consciously or not, he knew exactly how to undermine her confidence in herself.

Never mind him. Concentrate on the job at hand, dammit.

Leaning against a handy maple tree to catch her breath, she decided that the shortcut that had seemed such a good idea really wasn’t. The trade-off of avoiding the greater distance of twists and turns for a more direct route meant she was forced to do a hell of a lot of pretty rugged climbing to get over a ridge.

“Suck it up,” she muttered to herself. “You’re surrounded by people who don’t even get the concept of quit.”

That reminder did little for her self-confidence, but at least it caused her to push herself away from the support of the tree and press onward.

And upward.

No more than twenty or so yards farther, near the crest of the ridge, she stopped to lean against another tree, but this time not only because of her burning legs and thudding heart.

Quentin was near.

It was weird, that… sensation. More than knowledge or awareness, it was a tangible connection she couldn’t really explain—and had so far refused to examine closely. Even after all these months, she invariably caught herself resisting, pulling away from that powerful inner tugging, not allowing herself to be drawn toward Quentin as every other instinct insisted she must be.

Bishop said it was because she had lived so much of her life under someone else’s control and that, once all the medications were out of her system and her father’s authority over her had been legally and practically severed, she was bound to instinctively fight for her independence—even against a connection that posed no threat to that independence.

He had said this out of the blue one day while he was teaching her a few basic martial arts moves, and Diana had somewhat indignantly believed he did it only to distract her so he could maintain the upper hand in the match—until she thought about it later. First she recognized that he had hardly needed any sort of distraction, given his skills. And she recognized second that not only was he right in what he’d told her but also that she never would have brought up the subject herself, and what he’d told her was something she really needed to know.

Which figured. Bishop, she had discovered, was like that. He picked up on the things one didn’t want to discuss and matter-of-factly made one discuss them.

Or at least consider them. She hadn’t been willing to discuss that particular subject, her prickly defenses going up immediately. She just wasn’t ready to talk about her father and all the baggage he’d left her with. Not with Bishop.

And only very rarely and briefly with Quentin.

That made her feel guilty as hell, even though she was reasonably certain he knew exactly what was going on in her head. Because Quentin, with highly uncharacteristic patience, had not demanded or even asked for any kind of commitment from her, giving her all the time she needed to come to terms with both her new life and startling abilities and with a tie to him that had nothing to do with domination.

At least she thought that was why he hadn’t—

“Diana?”

Thank God he’s not a telepath.

“Hi.” She was relieved to note that she’d had time to catch her breath and didn’t sound as out of shape as she was.

“We heard shots.” He hadn’t drawn his weapon but was visibly tense, his gaze scanning their surroundings warily.

“Hollis and I ran into a bear.” When he quickly focused on her face, she added, “Not literally. But we needed to scare it away. It found something, Quentin. Another body. Or what’s left of one.”

“Shit. Murder victim?”

“We think so.”

He let out a short little breath. ‘Okay. Miranda’s on her way with a couple of Duncan’s deputies. She said Reese would be there with Hollis before we get back to them.”

“How does she know—” Diana broke off as she realized.

Quentin was nodding. “I’ve never quite figured out how she and Bishop do it, but they always seem to know where each of us is at any given moment, in relation to them and to each other.”

“That’s a little… unsettling,” Diana admitted.

“You’ll get used to it.” He paused, reflecting, then added, “Or not. Come on, let’s go.”

“You’re assuming I can find my way back there.”

“I know you can find your way back there.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “You’re as good as a compass.”

“My one skill,” she muttered.

“One of many. Your father called again last night, didn’t he?”

“He calls nearly every night,” she said, trying to make her voice careless. “He’s stubborn as hell. So?”

“So stop letting him damage your confidence. Diana, you’re a valued member of this team because you have abilities and skills. In case you haven’t noticed, the SCU isn’t exactly the easiest team to join, and nobody gets in unless Bishop knows they can contribute to an investigation.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. You earned this. Okay?”

After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.” She turned to begin to retrace her steps, thankful that the way back, at least, was mostly downhill. “Do you think we have two killers?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I think it’s unlikely. Stranger things have happened—certainly when we’re around—but the odds are against it.”

“That’s what we—” The craa-aack of a shot cut her off, and Diana jerked to a stop, half-turning to look at Quentin. “What the hell?”

“That was a rifle. And none of us is carrying a rifle.”

“Where did the shot come from? With all the echoes, I couldn’t tell.”

“I think it came from the other side of the valley.”

“A hunter?”

“I don’t think so.”

Diana didn’t have to be urged to continue on. Or to hurry.

“Stay down.”

DeMarco’s heavy weight lay on her for only an instant before he was rolling away, weapon in hand, eyes narrowed as he peered through the underbrush to scan the mountain slopes surrounding the valley below them. One of his hands lay only inches from the murdered woman’s skull.

“Sorry,” he added briefly.

Without moving otherwise, Hollis fingered the neat hole in the shoulder of her jacket and managed a shaky laugh. “Sorry? Because you probably saved my life?”

“As fast as you heal, that’s debatable. No, I’m sorry I had to knock you down like that without warning.”

“There wasn’t really time for a warning. I get that, believe me.” Hollis was a bit proud of the fact that her voice was—almost—as calm as his. She rolled onto her belly but continued to hug the cold ground as she drew her weapon. “I don’t suppose that shot could have been accidental.” It wasn’t a question.

He answered anyway. “Probably not. That was a high-powered rifle, and I doubt it’s the sort of weapon used by hunters in these parts.”

“Then somebody was shooting at me?”

“At one of us. Or intending to shake us up.”

Hollis wondered if anything had ever shaken up DeMarco. Somehow she doubted it.

“I don’t see anything,” she said after a moment, scanning the area as he was—or at least as much as she could make out through the underbrush. Not that she was all that sure what she was looking for. “Speaking of which, how the hell did you know that shot was coming?”

He didn’t reply immediately, and when he did his tone was almost indifferent. “I caught a glimpse of something from the corner of my eye. Probably sunlight glinting off the barrel of the gun.”

Hollis glanced up at what had become, hours before, a heavily overcast sky and said, “Uh-huh. Okay, keep the mysterious military secrets to yourself. I don’t mind being told it’s none of my business.” Despite the words, her voice was, to say the least, sarcastic.

“It’s not a military secret, Hollis.”

Something she couldn’t identify had crept into that indifferent tone, and for some obscure reason it pleased her. “No?”

“No.” He glanced at her, then away, as he added, “I can feel it when a gun is pointed at me or anywhere close to me.”

“Always?”

“So far as I know.”

“Is that a psychic ability?”

Again, he hesitated briefly before replying. “Bishop calls it a primal ability. Guns pose lethal threats: I sense a threat. It’s a survival mechanism.”

“Sounds like a handy one, especially in our line of work.”

“It has been, yes.”

“You still sensing a threat?”

“Not an imminent one.”

“Meaning the gun isn’t pointed this way anymore, but the shooter might still be… wherever he or she was?”

“Something like that.”

“Then maybe we can get up off the ground now?”

He sent her another glance. “I could be wrong, you know.”

“Are you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, which surprised her. From the first time they’d met, she had sized up DeMarco as a man full of self-confidence. Possibly to a fault. She figured he was the sort who would view any hesitation as weakness.

That was one reason she always felt slightly on the defensive with him, because she was prone to hesitate. A lot.

Deciding this wasn’t one of those times, she gathered herself to get up off the ground. Instantly, DeMarco’s free hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, holding her still just long enough.

The bullet hit the tree nearest them with a dull thud, bark went flying, and the craa-aack of the shot echoed as the first one had.

If Hollis had gotten up as planned, she likely would have taken that shot just about dead center in her chest.

DeMarco released her wrist. “Now we can get up.” He did.

Hollis remained where she was for a moment, studying the reddening marks of his grip on her arm. Then she accepted his outstretched hand and got to her feet. It struck her as she did that she was completely confident in DeMarco’s certainty that the gunman would not shoot again, and she wondered about that.

She really did.

“So it was intended for me,” she said, holding her voice steady despite her pounding heart. “I was the target.”

A rare frown drew his brows together as he continued to scan the mountain slopes facing them. “Maybe. Depending on his position, we could have been at least partially visible even when we were on the ground. Or maybe he couldn’t see you about to get up, and that was just a final shot aimed where we were a few minutes ago, intended to keep us pinned down here and give him more time to get out of the area. Either way is possible. We should be able to determine a rough trajectory using the bullet that struck that tree, and the first one if we can find it.”

“And if the trajectory confirms what you suspect?” she asked, knowing he had a point to make.

“Then the shooter was on the other side of the valley.”

Hollis looked, then frowned as she slowly holstered her gun. “I’m not all that good at estimating distance, but… that’s not close.”

“No. But for a trained sharpshooter with a good scope, not an impossible distance.”

“You’re thinking he missed on purpose?”

“I’m thinking with the sort of gun and scope I suspect he’s using, he was more likely to hit what he was aiming at than to miss with the only two shots he fired.”

“He might have missed with the first shot only because you were quicker. Have I said thank you, by the way?”

“You’re welcome.” But DeMarco was staring toward the other side of the valley, his eyes narrowed again. “Why draw attention to his presence? Dumb idea. We wouldn’t suspect he was there otherwise. He could have watched every move we made here.”

“Why would he want to?”

“That’s the question. Possible answers: Because he wants to see us in action. Because he wants to observe our reaction to this victim, this dump site. Because we’ve been here only a couple of hours, new players he wants to get to know. Or… because he likes to watch. Likes to see how people—law enforcement or otherwise—react to what he’s left for us.”

“But we’ve agreed this body wasn’t meant to be found.”

DeMarco nodded. “So … he wouldn’t expect to see us here. Any of us. Anyone, for that matter. He had every reason to expect no one would be at this location.”

“Which means neither of us was a target?”

“Not a target he would have expected or planned for. A target of opportunity maybe. We were here, one or both of us are on his hit list, so he took his shot. But if he didn’t expect anyone to find this victim, what’s he doing on the other side of the valley with a high-powered rifle? And why was it more important to him to shoot at one or both of us, giving away his presence, rather than simply waiting and watching in order to gather intel?”

Hollis wasn’t sure what she would have replied to that, so it was a good thing that Quentin and Diana arrived then. Both had guns drawn and were visibly alert and wary.

“We heard the shots,” Quentin said.

DeMarco explained, with a minimum of words, what had happened.

Hollis silently poked one finger through the bullet hole in her jacket.

Characteristically, Quentin’s comment to her was somewhat flippant. “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

“Apparently not.”

Diana was scanning the mountain slopes ringing the valley. “Jesus, it’s a wilderness. Whoever fired those shots could be anywhere. Even if we knew exactly where he was, it’d take us forever to get to that spot.” She paused, then added, “And aren’t we awfully exposed standing here?”

“The shooter’s done for now,” DeMarco said, holstering his weapon.

Diana eyed him. “You read his mind across a valley?”

“No. But he’s done. For now.”

Noting that Quentin was also holstering his gun, Diana followed suit. I’m learning to trust all of them. Or maybe I just trust Quentin. It wasn’t an easy thing for her, trust. It still caught her by surprise when she became aware of feeling it.

Pushing that aside, Diana forced herself to look down once again at the remains of the second victim. Poor thing. What happened to you? Who did this to you?

Unlike Hollis, Diana tended not to see the recently dead. The spirits she saw—most of them what she called guides—were usually messengers of a sort, connecting with her so she could pass on information, so they could show her something she needed to see or in some other way help an uneasy spirit find rest and peace in whatever lay beyond this life.

So she wasn’t worried about being confronted by the spirit of this poor woman. And she was glad about that.

The physical remains were bad enough. Horrible. Her stomach lurched a bit, but the queasy sensation remained a low-grade awareness that she could, if not suppress, at least cope with. For the moment. That, she supposed, was professional progress of a sort. At least she hadn’t disgraced herself by losing her lunch.

Attempting to keep up the professional façade as long as possible, she returned her attention to Hollis and said, “So the shooter was aiming at you? Why were you a target?”

“Beats the hell out of me. But Reese says it could have been either of us.”

“Okay. Why would either of you be a target? I mean, did this guy shoot at two SCU agents specifically? Or one of you specifically?”

“Could be either,” Quentin said. “We’ve made enemies over the years, individually and as a unit. We do try, and mostly succeed, to keep our pictures out of the news, so if you two were recognized as SCU agents I’d be surprised. None of us is wearing an FBI jacket, so that isn’t obvious. We are carrying weapons, though—handguns, and they mark us as likely cops.”

“Yeah,” Hollis said, “but right before you guys got here, we’d pretty much established that the shooter probably wasn’t expecting anybody to be here, because he wouldn’t have expected this victim to be found.”

“You’re assuming the shooter was the murderer,” Diana said.

“I don’t want to assume anything else,” Hollis confessed. “Because we really don’t need some random maniac with a high-powered rifle running around in this mountain wilderness shooting at us while we’re trying to investigate—” She broke off, frowning.

“A less random maniac?” DeMarco murmured.

“You know what I mean. One killer in an area this remote I can just about buy. But not two of them.”

“Unless it’s a tag team,” Quentin offered. “I still say it’s unlikely, but the possibility has to be considered.”

“It’s a possibility I’d rather not think about,” Hollis told him. “Besides, from all I’ve read and heard, that would be seriously unlikely.”

“True. So, what would the killer gain by shooting?”

Diana said, “Maybe he wanted us to know he’s been watching.”

Hollis frowned at her. “But he couldn’t have known we’d be here, that’s the point.”

“Not only here,” Diana told her. She realized she was being stared at and raised her eyebrows at DeMarco. “You think he is—or was—somewhere across the valley, right? And higher up than we are now?”

“Probably. I’m guessing at the trajectory of the shots, but it seems more likely than not.”

“Well, then.”

Quentin shook his head. “Sorry, Diana, but whatever’s so obvious to you, the rest of us seem to be missing.”

“Don’t you guys know where we are?”

“In relation to what? Other than being on the side of one of these mountains, I don’t really—” Quentin frowned suddenly.

Diana was nodding. “If he was across the valley and higher up, then he had a bird’s-eye view of the dump site where the other victim was discovered. We’re not that far away, and the other site faces south, just like this one does. With the shooter across the valley, facing north, he could easily cover both sites. He’s probably been watching all day.”

New York City

FBI Director Micah Hughes stared rather sourly at a famous painting of nymphs frolicking, barely conscious of other visitors to the museum wandering in and out of this room. He was more aware of the uniformed guard who strolled through in seemingly casual but exquisitely precise intervals of eight and a half minutes and even more aware of strategically placed cameras.

The museum knew all the tricks required to guard its treasures.

“Relax, Micah. Anyone would think you were planning to rob the place.”

Hughes didn’t relax. He also didn’t turn his head, and he kept his voice low. “You usually pick less-public meeting spots. And I don’t like the idea of turning up on a security tape talking to you. No offense.”

“None taken. You don’t have to worry about any type of recording. That part of the system is undergoing routine maintenance for the next half hour.”

“And I’m supposed to… trust that information is accurate?” He’d nearly said “take your word for it,” but had managed to stop himself just in time.

“I would, if I were you.” The very distinctive voice was pleasant.

But when Hughes stole a quick glance at his companion, he noted that the half smile on that handsome face was more dangerous than it was reassuring and that those regular features gave nothing else away. The man was tall, slender but broad-shouldered and athletic, and could have been any age between fifty and sixty-five. Whatever his age, his vitality was obvious, and there clung to him an ineffable air of power.

One of the movers and shakers of the world, Hughes knew. He also knew that few people would have recognized the man’s name, and fewer still his face. He had been very successful at keeping a low public profile for a very long time.

Hughes concentrated on what he needed to say. “Look, I’ve done everything you asked of me.”

“Yes, you have. Thank you.”

“And I’ve done everything you asked of me because I believed it was in the best interests of the Bureau and this country to rein in Noah Bishop and his unit of mavericks and misfits.” It was a clear and concise statement, and Hughes was proud of it. He’d been practicing it in his head for weeks.

He had not acted out of malice. He had not acted out of jealousy or resentment. He had not acted out of greed. And he most certainly had not acted out of fear. That was what he wanted to make absolutely clear to the other man.

“Nothing has changed, Micah. Bishop is still a danger. His unit is still a danger.”

“I’m not so sure of that. Not anymore.”

“Why? Because they managed to stop Samuel, killing him in the process?”

“They didn’t kill him.”

“Someone else may have held the knife, but they most certainly destroyed him. And you know it.”

“I don’t know what happened in the Compound, and neither do you. I have Bishop’s report, backed up by his team and by the local chief of police, that Samuel was stabbed to death by one of his followers{see Blood Sins}. No other witness has stepped forward to dispute what happened. I also have boxes of evidence that Samuel was responsible for more murders than I want to think about, including that of the daughter of a United States senator.”

“Micah—”

“Whatever you want to say about it, however you choose to view it, Bishop and his team stopped a serial killer. One of many they’ve stopped. That is beyond dispute.”

The other man was silent for a moment, then said, “So he’s finally won you over, I see.”

Hughes paused as the guard strolled through the room several feet away from the two men, then said evenly, “I don’t like Bishop. I believe he’s arrogant and ruthless, that he has a tendency to play by his own rules rather than the rule of law, and I profoundly distrust these… paranormal abilities claimed by him and by his agents.”

“But he’s successful. And that’s enough for you.”

“He gets results. Positive results. He catches, cages, or otherwise destroys killers who are, without any doubt, a menace to public safety. He does it without fanfare, keeping himself and his people out of the media as much as possible, and he does it without making the Bureau look bad, to the public or to other law enforcement agencies. If anything, the work of his unit has improved the image of the FBI in recent years. And we needed it.”

“I see,” the other man repeated. “You’ve taken the time to read all the files in more detail.”

Hughes could feel himself beginning to sweat. “I didn’t want to let my dislike color my judgment. So, yes, I’ve gone back over the entire history of the SCU. Studied Bishop’s record and those of the agents in his unit.”

“You were impressed.”

“They’re an impressive group of people. Mavericks, yes. Misfits, certainly. Most if not all of them have seriously traumatic events in their pasts that should, at the very least, have rendered them unsuitable and even unfit for law-enforcement work.”

“That alone should tell you—”

“All passed the standard Bureau psychological evaluation and have passed all follow-up evaluations. Whatever happened to them, they’ve coped extraordinarily well with the trauma. In addition to that, Bishop has set as a requirement for his team regular physical evaluations, from medical to strength and endurance. Those people are tested at every level, far beyond Bureau standards or requirements. As a group they’re some of the most healthy and fit agents in the Bureau.” Hughes hesitated, then added, “They’re even assessed by a group of researchers I had no idea worked within the Bureau. Paranormal researchers.”

The other man let out a short, derisive laugh.

Hughes refused to allow himself to sound defensive when he said, “I’m told that particular group has been a part of the Bureau since the middle of the last century, during the Cold War, when it seems every major power was conducting legitimate research into the paranormal.”

“Governments fund crackpot research all the time, Micah, and we both know it. But ours didn’t get far with its remote-viewing experiments, did it?”

Hughes was more than a little surprised at that, though wondered why he was. In a know-your-enemies sense, his companion had quite probably looked into the history of paranormal research. He was, after all, a careful, thorough man.

“The remote-viewing experiments were less than successful,” Hughes admitted. “But other experiments have shown more promise. And I’m told that Bishop’s unit has produced a staggering amount of raw data from the field as well as in the lab, enough to keep the researchers busy for decades.”

“My tax dollars at work.”

Hughes ignored the scorn. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it and, as I said, I profoundly mistrust the very concept of psychic abilities, much less psychic abilities used as investigative tools. But Bishop has indisputably made it work; his success rate is in the ninetieth percentile. And his unit functions as a team better than any other unit in the Bureau.”

“Which is enough for you.”

“I’m the Director of the FBI. The successes and failures of my agents reflect well—or badly—on my judgment. And in my judgment, the Special Crimes Unit must be considered an unqualified success.”

“Micah—”

“All these months, and I’ve got nothing—absolutely nothing—I can use even to reprimand Bishop, let alone bust him.”

The other man took a step so that he faced Hughes more squarely and said, “You’re taking heat, aren’t you? You’ve been warned to back off.”

Shit.

“Senator LeMott.” It clearly was not a guess.

“I told you he was a powerful man. But it isn’t only him. From all I can gather, Bishop made a deliberate effort even before he formed his unit to cultivate the sort of connections he could call on for support. People inside and outside the Bureau, in the government and in the private sector. Very important, very influential people. And they appear to support him without reservation.”

After a pause, the other man said, “I could ruin you, Micah.”

Hughes refused to flinch or look away. “Yes, you could. But it wouldn’t change anything, not for you. Because I can virtually guarantee you that any successor of mine would also support Bishop and the SCU. Unless and until he does something unacceptable to the FBI, he will not be interfered with. Not by us.”

For a long, long moment, Hughes wasn’t sure what would break the stalemate. And then, completely expressionless, the other man turned and walked away.

Hughes watched him go. Watched the guard stroll through the room, casual and anything but. Then he turned in a different direction and made his way out of the museum, keeping his expression neutral, slightly preoccupied. When he was outside, he walked half a block to where his car and driver waited and got in.

Only then did he relax. Just a bit. The driver, without asking, started the car and pulled out of the space.

Hughes drew in a breath and let it out slowly, wondering, not for the first time, if he had chosen the wrong line of work. He reached for his cell phone and punched in a number from memory. It was answered on the first ring.

“Bishop.”

“We need to talk,” Micah Hughes said. “Now.”