Touching Evil

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

But how could I have written it without knowing I had?" Jennifer protested. "I swear to you, I don't remember anything except finding the note in my car."

"Of course you don't remember," Quentin said soothingly. "I'm not saying you did it consciously, Jenn."

She scowled at him. "How else could I have done it?"

"It's called automatic writing. It's a way to free the unconscious mind, to tap into our own memories or abilities."

"You're saying I remembered those dates?"

"No, in your case I'm saying it was a latent ability you tapped into." He traded glances with Kendra. "We're not entirely sure where it comes from, but automatic writing sometimes shows up during stressful situations, especially in cases of extreme need. You tend to be intuitive, don't you?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

"That's usually the case. Someone with good intuition can often tap into unsuspected, latent abilities."

"Are you saying I'm psychic?"

"No, I'm saying that with the right trigger some time during the early years of your life, you might have been. There's a theory that most humans have some sort of extrasensory ability if we only know how to tap into it. Maybe left over from more primitive times, when we needed an edge just to survive one day to the next."

"I've heard that," Jennifer admitted.

Quentin nodded. "In this case, you badly wanted an answer, or at least something to point you in the right direction, so your subconscious tried to help, opening itself up-sort of like an antenna. Thoughts are just energy, after all, the electrical impulses of the brain."

She was still frowning. "My mind picked up somebody else's thoughts?"

"Caught the gist of them, let's say." He frowned as he thought of those two dates. "The bare gist."

"And those thoughts just happened to come from the rapist?"

"There are few coincidences in life, I've found. You're looking for him, and have been for months. He's… embedded in your consciousness. Science is only beginning to understand the way our brains work, but suppose the electrical energy of our individual minds has a signature as distinctive as a fingerprint. That's entirely possible. And maybe there's a part of our brains that can recognize those signatures, even if we can't do it consciously."

"So my subconscious sort of tracked his?"

"Maybe. It's certainly a possibility. In any case, we've found that the source automatic writing taps into tends to be surprisingly both specific and accurate."

She eyed him. "Has anybody ever told you that you are a very weird FBI agent?"

"Frequently."

"I'm not surprised."

John said, "But he is making sense. At least, I think he is. And none of us has been able to come up with any other explanation for how that note got into your car."

Jennifer sighed. "Great, that's just great. Now I not only talk to myself, but my subconscious mind is listening in on other minds."

"Only under extreme stress," Quentin reminded her gravely.

She got up. "I'm leaving now. I'm going out on the streets to talk-out loud-to some of the uniforms who patrol the area where Hollis Templeton was found."

"Still looking for your transient?"

"I'm going to find him, dammit. With absolutely no help from my subconscious."

Kendra asked, "Mind if I come along? I don't know if I'll be any help, since this is your territory rather than mine, but God knows I could use the fresh air and exercise. If I stare at this laptop much longer, I'll either go to sleep or go nuts."

Jennifer barely hesitated. "Sure. I'd welcome the company."

"Don't get into trouble," Quentin told his partner.

"Without you along," she responded politely, "how on earth would I?"

"Ouch," John murmured.

"She's mean when she loses sleep," Quentin told him.

Kendra wiggled her fingers gently at her partner and followed a grinning Jennifer from the room.

Quentin sighed. "I don't think Jennifer quite bought the automatic-writing explanation. Sometimes I forget how hard this sort of thing is for most people to accept."

"But you do believe that's where the note came from?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Then am I wrong in thinking the chances are the rapist was somewhere close by when Jennifer… tuned in on him?"

"You caught that, huh?" Quentin smiled. "Yeah, probably. Distance is usually a factor, so it's likely he was nearby. That's why Kendra's tagging along with Jenn. We don't figure this is the sort of guy who hangs around police stations because cops fascinate him; if he was here, it was because he was watching someone."

"Jennifer?"

"Maybe. He might well consider grabbing a cop to be the ultimate challenge."

"But it could have been any woman entering or leaving this building?"

"Of course. Or any woman in the general area, for that matter. There's no way to know for sure."

"Figures." John looked at his watch again and said restlessly, "I know there hasn't been a lot of time and virtually no new information, but are you two profilers getting a handle on the way this animal's mind works?"

Quentin tapped a finger on the legal pad in front of him, where his neat printing filled most of the top page. "Maybe."

"And?"

"And the bastard likes his work. A lot."

"Yeah, I got that. Answer me this. Why have victims of his attacks survived when those in 1934 didn't? I mean, if he's copying the crimes."

"Good question. I'd guess he expected them to die; he took care always to leave them in out-of-the-way locations where they were more than likely to remain undiscovered, certainly long enough to bleed to death or die of exposure, especially this time of year. The fact is, those women fought to stay alive, maybe harder than he expected. And after three straight victims survived, he made damned sure Samantha Mitchell wouldn't, by cutting her throat."

"If he expected them to die, why bother to blind them?"

"To keep them from seeing. Maybe his face, or maybe something else. He didn't want them watching him, didn't want them to see what he did to them. Maybe didn't want them to know he enjoyed it."

John's mouth twisted. "Christ."

"Yeah. Not a nice boy."

"Massive understatement." John was silent for a long time, his gaze moving over the photos and sketches on the bulletin boards. Then, slowly, he said, "Quentin, do you believe in fate?"

"Yep."

"That was quick."

Quentin chuckled. "John, when you do the sort of work I do, you get most of your own philosophies and beliefs figured out early on. You bet I believe in fate. I also believe in reincarnation-and the two are definitely connected. Is there a karmic pattern to our lives? You'd better believe it."

"What about free will?"

"Oh, there's that too. I never understood why people think they're mutually exclusive. Ask me, our entire lives aren't planned out for us-just some things. Specific events along the way, crossroads we're meant to come to. Tests, maybe, to measure our progress. But we always have choices, and those choices can send us along an unplanned path."

"And change our fates?"

"I believe so. Still, if you listen to Bishop and Miranda-and I certainly do, though don't tell them I admitted that-there are some things that are meant to happen at a certain moment and in a certain way. No matter which path you choose, which decisions you make along your own particular journey, those pivotal moments appear to be set in stone. Maybe they represent the specific lessons we're meant to learn."

"Set in stone. Things we have to face. Things we have to learn. Responsibilities we have to fulfill. And mistakes we have to correct." John continued to stare broodingly at the bulletin board.

Quentin watched his friend for a moment, then said quietly, "So that's it. That's why Maggie does what she does. Atonement?"

"She says… she's responsible for the continued existence of this bastard. Because she didn't stop him once before, as she was meant to."

"I see. No copycat at all, just the same twisted, evil soul reborn to do his thing one more time."

John looked at him. "You don't seem surprised."

"This isn't the first time we've encountered something along these lines."

"A reincarnated killer?"

"That's right." Quentin's smile was a bit wry. "Reincarnated, resurrected-or just plain dead and still kicking. An amazingly resilient thing, evil."

"You're saying Maggie really is responsible for this?"

"I'm saying the universe might be holding her accountable for it, or for some part of it. Maybe that's why she was put in this particular place at this particular time and given the abilities she was born with."

"To suffer? To pay in agony for a mistake she might have made a long time ago?" John was dimly surprised by the harsh sound of his own voice.

"We all pay for our mistakes, John. In this life-or the next. But if you believe that, you also have to believe we're rewarded when we get it right. Yeah, Maggie's suffering in this life. She's also helping other people, easing their suffering. Whether she's here to correct a mistake or just living another stage in her own spiritual development, I'd say Maggie is earning major bonus points this time around."

John had to smile, albeit reluctantly. "So she'll be rewarded in the next life?"

"Hey, maybe she'll be rewarded later on in this one."

"If she corrects her past mistake?"

Quentin shrugged. "Maybe. Then again, Maggie might already have balanced her books with the universe, John, despite the sense of responsibility she still feels. We have no way of knowing what's expected of us."

"Not even seers?"

"Not even seers."

After a moment, John said, "That really sucks."

"Tell me about it."

Long after Maggie left her, Hollis sat as she usually did, her face turned toward the window. She wondered idly if, after tomorrow, she'd still be able to hear as acutely as she did now. She could hear the cop out in the hall shift in the chair where he sat. She could hear the elevators at the end of the hall as the cars passed this floor on their journeys up and down. She could hear the murmur of somebody's television. Outside and several floors down, she could hear the busy swish of traffic.

Would she be able to hear so well if, tomorrow, she could see again? Probably not. But that wasn't what bothered her. She would happily trade the sharper hearing for the return of her sight. But would she, alone of all the victims so far, survive his attack still able to see? And if so-why? If Maggie was right about fate and destiny, there had to be a reason. What had she done to earn that?

Or… what was she supposed to do?

Quietly, she murmured, "Annie? Are you there?"

I'm here.

The voice was faint, hardly louder than a whisper, but at least it was a reply after many hours of silence.

"There's a lot you haven't told me, isn't there?"

Yes.

"Why? Don't you trust me?"

I had to be so careful, especially at first. Other times… other times, those I tried to warn could never accept me. 7… frightened them. I didn't want to frighten you.

"I'm not frightened."

I know. Now.

"Then tell me what I can do to help Maggie. She helped me, more than she knows. She took away so much of the pain and fear. And… she's fighting for all of us. I have to help her. Tell me how, Annie." At first, she didn't think there'd be any sort of answer. But finally even more distantly and fading into silence, the answer came.

Soon. Soon, Hollis…

When John finally reached Maggie on her cell phone, he had to force himself to speak calmly. "Where are you?"

"I'm leaving the hospital after checking on Hollis." She sounded as calm as always, though John fancied he could detect a note of strain. "I just turned the phone back on."

"Then you're on your way back here?"

"I was. But there's one more thing I think I should go ahead and do today."

"What?"

"A walk-through of the building where they found Samantha Mitchell. Maybe I can get something useful. Can you give me the address?"

Immediately, John said, "You don't need to do that alone, Maggie. I'll meet you there."

She barely hesitated. "Okay, fine. What's the address?"

He found the Mitchell file on the cluttered conference table and read off the address to her, finishing with, "If you get there first, wait outside for me. All right?"

"I will. See you there."

John closed his cell phone and said to Quentin, "She shouldn't do it alone."

"Did I say anything?"

"You wanted to."

Quentin smiled slightly, but said very quietly, "She has to do this her way, just like I warned you days ago. But you already knew that, didn't you, John?"

"Let's just say I figured it out. I've gotten to know Maggie, to understand what makes her tick, or at least I think I have. You said all along that her motivation for feeling the pain of all those victims had to be deep, powerful. Maybe even… set in stone. Atonement. Whatever the… judgment… of the universe, in Maggie's mind there's only one way to truly correct the mistake she believes she made. Stop this bastard, here and now. And she means to do everything in her power to make sure that happens, no matter what the cost to herself."

"I'd say so. I'd also say you won't do her any favors by trying to protect her, and you won't stop her from doing what she feels she has to do."

"Are you sure about that? Can you be?"

"Are you asking me if I know what the future will bring?"

Visibly bracing himself, John replied, "I guess that is what I'm asking you. Can I protect her?"

"No."

After a long moment, John drew a breath and said lightly, "You won't mind if I try?"

"I wouldn't expect anything else."

John nodded, then turned without another word and left.

Alone again in the conference room, Quentin murmured into the silence, "Fate doesn't expect anything else of you either, John. I wonder when you'll realize that."

When Andy came into the conference room a few minutes later, he found Quentin slumped in his chair, feet propped on a closed file on the conference table and fingers laced together across his middle. He was frowning.

Andy didn't know the agent well, but he knew preoccupation when he saw it. "Worried about John?"

"Hmm?" He looked at Andy and blinked.

"I asked if you were worried about John. I saw him leave a little while ago, and he looked a bit… upset."

Absently, Quentin said, "Yeah, he isn't hiding his feelings too well right now, is he?"

"He's going after Maggie?"

"Yeah."

Patient, Andy said, "And you're worried?"

Quentin blinked again, then shook his head. "No, not about that. No sense worrying about something set in stone a long time ago."

Andy started to ask what he meant by that, then decided he really didn't want to know. "Then what?"

"Did you ever get the nagging feeling there was something you'd overlooked?"

"Occasionally."

"And?"

"And I usually find I've overlooked something."

"Yeah. Me too." Quentin stared at the cluttered table. "Somewhere among all this stuff is a detail I should have paid closer attention to."

"Can't narrow it down any more than that?"

"No. Dammit." He took his feet off the table and sat up, opening the closed file rather grimly. "But I intend to, because it's bugging the hell out of me."

Andy shrugged philosophically. "Let me know when you find it."

When he reached the abandoned and deserted building where Samantha Mitchell's body had been found, John wasn't surprised to find the entire area all but deserted. It wasn't an especially inviting day-cold, cloudy, and dreary, and misting rain from time to time- and the neighborhood wasn't what anyone would have called appealing. Far from it. What few buildings within view hadn't already been condemned or scheduled for demolition wore the barred-window, iron-grated-door look of desperate fortresses holding danger at bay.

Maggie's car was parked in front of the building where Samantha had been found, and she got out as he parked his car, waiting for him on the sidewalk.

"This is not what I'd call a cheerful place," he noted as he joined her.

"Hardly," Maggie agreed. She was hugging the sketch pad to her breast as she often did, as though it were a shield. The chill breeze made the tip of her nose pink and stirred her long hair so that it seemed to have an independent life all its own. "It's almost as if he chooses the places where he leaves his victims partly for their desolation. As if he wants the women to feel… abandoned. Alone."

"Maybe he does. Maybe it's all part of his twisted game to isolate his victims in every sense of the word."

She shivered visibly. "Yeah."

"Maggie, maybe you should wait to do this."

"We need all the information we can get, you know that."

"Yeah, but it's hardly fair-even of a demanding universe-to expect you to keep putting yourself through this."

"Didn't anybody ever teach you that life isn't especially fair?"

He looked at her for a moment, then said lightly, "I'm learning that all the time."

Suddenly a bit self-conscious, Maggie went to put the sketch pad inside her car. "No reason to take this in with me," she said. "I never can sketch anything while I'm walking through anyway."

When she rejoined him, John touched her arm. "Are you sure you're up to this? After our all-nighter at the station, you can't have gotten much rest."

"I doubt anybody got much rest. Did you?"

"No-but I'm not an empath carrying around the weight of other people's pain."

Maggie smiled suddenly. "Can you imagine yourself even saying that a week ago?"

He had to laugh, however briefly. "No. In fact- hell, no."

"We live and learn." She started up the uneven walkway to the front doorway of the building.

John followed. "And you didn't answer me. Should you be doing this today?"

"We don't have a lot of time left."

He caught her arm just short of the front steps and stopped her. "Something you feel? Or something you know?"

"Both." She met his intent gaze as steadily as she could. "Tara Jameson could already be dead, but even if she isn't, she's suffering right now."

"That isn't your fault, Maggie."

She didn't try to argue with him. "If I don't do everything within my power to try to find her, to stop him, I'll blame myself for the rest of my life. Do you understand that?"

He hesitated, then with an oddly tentative movement as if he couldn't really help himself, he reached up and brushed back a strand of her hair that had blown across her cheek, his fingers lingering only a moment against her skin. "If I don't understand anything else, I do understand that," he said. "But there's something you have to understand, Maggie. I lost my sister to this bastard. Andy and his detectives have lived with the investigation for months. Quentin and Kendra put their lives on the line every day trying to put monsters of every kind in cages where they belong. Maybe we don't feel the pain of the victims as intensely as you do-but we feel it."

Maggie drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to…"

"Being a team player?"

"Don't tell me you're used to it."

He smiled. "Usually a team leader. So this isn't so easy for me either. But as long as I can feel I'm contributing, I can handle not being the one in charge."

Dryly, Maggie said, "I have a feeling you've been in charge since you got here. One way or another."

"Don't tell Andy that. Or Quentin, for that matter."

"If you think they don't know, you're wrong."

Realizing he was still holding her arm, John forced himself to let go of her. "Then they've been very gracious about it. So-we're going in there, huh?"

"I don't know if it'll help. Maybe he spent as little time here as he did all the other places he left his victims. Maybe I won't find anything new. But I have to try."

"Okay. Hang on a minute-it's so overcast out here, we're bound to need flashlights inside."

Maggie waited while he returned to his car for a couple of flashlights, and then they entered the building.

The flashlights helped them see a place very like the one where Hollis Templeton had been left-a dirty, ramshackle building that had long ago been stripped to its bare bones. The floor creaked underfoot, and they could both hear the whispering scurry of rats.

"Yuck," Maggie said. "I hate rats."

"I'm not crazy about them either. And there's no blood trail to follow this time; according to the report, she was found down that hallway, a room at the rear, on the left side of the building." John kept his voice matter-of-fact.

Maggie stood there for a moment, collecting herself, slowly opening the door to those inner senses. Almost immediately she could smell the blood, and it was no easier to bear than before, thick and cloying in her nostrils. But this time, she forced herself to push past that, to let her senses probe beyond the sickly sweet odor.

"Maggie?"

"I'm okay. It… feels different somehow."

"In what way?"

"I'm not sure." She began moving slowly down the long hallway toward the back of the building, where there were half a dozen rooms, their doors long gone and broken casings leaning drunkenly like a child's drawing of doorways.

"Creepy place, even with only five senses," John muttered.

Maggie wanted to tell him it was infinitely creepier with extra senses, but her attention was tunneling, fixing on the particular slanted doorway to the left that was drawing her toward it. The blood smell was growing stronger, and with it came flashes of darkness, much as she had sensed where Hollis had been left. Flashes of darkness, and pain, and terror, and-Why was it getting harder to breathe? Why did she feel an odd sensation, as if some great weight or… presence… hung over her, bent toward her-

She didn't even hear John's cell phone begin to ring.