He drove past 3311 Cypress Terrace; there was a narrow, one-slot carport instead of a garage, and a five-year-old Pontiac occupied the space. There were no other cars, no bicycles, no skateboards, nothing to indicate kids. Only one light was on in the house, indicating that there was either only one person there, or everyone was in one room. Usually it was the former.
He circled the block and drove by a second time; twice was all he allotted himself on one trip. If anyone was watching, which wasn’t likely, the second pass would be attributed to someone lost, while a third pass would be suspicious. The second time he noted the fence that ran down the left side of the house, on the opposite side of the carport. Good. A fence was nice concealment. The right side was more open than he liked it, but all in all the situation was very nice. Very nice indeed. Everything was falling into place.
Marlie had been curled up on the couch, reading a book that was only mildly interesting and slowly feeling herself relax. She had felt the strain all day long, wondering if Detective Hollister would be waiting in the parking lot when she left work as he had been the day before. She wasn’t certain she could handle another of those hostile confrontations with him, but at the same time she felt curiously cast adrift when she walked out of the bank and he wasn’t there. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop, only it never did.
She leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. His face formed behind her eyelids: the rough planes, the broken nose, the hazel green of those deep-set eyes. Not the face of a sophisticate; even if the features had been more even, the expression in those eyes would always set him apart. They were the piercing eyes of a predator, always watching. She rather thought that the people of Orlando could count themselves lucky that he had come down on the side of the law, making criminals his natural prey instead of themselves. Now, added to the force of his own nature, was the look that all cops had: that all-encompassing cynicism, the cool distance, the wall that those in law enforcement erected between themselves and those they served.
She had known a lot of cops, had seen it in all of them. Cops relaxed only with their own kind, with others who had seen the same things, done the same things. None of them went home and told their spouses about the meanness and depravity that they saw every day. What a great topic that would have been over dinner! Cops had a high divorce rate. The stress was incredible.
Cops had never known how to take her. At first, of course, they had all thought of her as a joke. After she had proved herself, though, they had all become very uneasy around her, because her psychic insight had included them. Only a cop understood another cop: That was a given. But she had felt their emotions, their anger and fear and disgust. They couldn’t erect that wall against her, and they had felt vulnerable.
Then, six years ago, she had had to learn how to read people’s emotions the way everyone else did, by picking up subtle clues of body language and voice tone, by reading expressions. She had been like a baby learning how to talk, because she had never before had to rely on visual clues. For a while she hadn’t wanted to learn, all she had wanted was to be left alone in the blessed silence. But total isolation wasn’t human nature; even hermits usually took up with animals. Instinctively, once she had felt safe, she had begun to watch people and read them. It was difficult to read Detective Hollister, though. Her mouth quirked with wry humor. Maybe she had such a hard time reading him because she could barely stand to look at him. It wasn’t that he was repulsive, because for all his rough features, he wasn’t, but rather because he was so intense. He made her uncomfortable, glaring at her the way he did, battering at her until he forced her to pull up memories she would rather forget.
She wasn’t afraid of him; no matter how much he might try, he couldn’t tie her to Nadine Vinick’s murder, because there was no tie. He couldn’t find evidence that didn’t exist. The uneasiness she felt—
Marlie froze, her eyes flying open and focusing on nothing as she mentally searched the feeling that had crept over her. It wasn’t a vision, or anything else that overwhelming. But she definitely sensed a vague, cold malevolence, a threat.
She got jerkily to her feet and began pacing as she tried to order her thoughts. What was happening? Was the knowing truly returning, or was she experiencing a perfectly normal reaction to a lot of stress?
She had been thinking of Hollister, and all of a sudden she had felt uneasy and threatened. Easy enough to understand that, if Hollister was the source of the threat. Most people would think so, but Marlie analyzed the feeling again and couldn’t find any fear of Hollister in any way connected with his investigation.
The malevolence slapped at her, growing stronger. Marlie gagged on a sudden rise of nausea. Something was happening. God, something was happening. What? Was it connected with Hollister? Was he in danger?
She lurched to a halt, her fists clenched. Maybe she should call him, see if he was all right. But what should she say? Nothing. She didn’t have to say anything. If he answered the phone, then he was obviously all right. She could just hang up.
Childish trick. This unformed threat was sickening. She broke out in a sweat, torn with indecision, and all of a sudden the old instincts took over. Blindly she reached out with her mind, searching for Hollister, trying to pinpoint that nebulous cloud of evil. It was like groping in fog; she couldn’t focus on anything.
Groaning, she sank down on the couch again. What had she expected? She hadn’t been able to do that for six years, and even before, it hadn’t been easy. Just because she had had one freak vision, and felt this vague threat, she thought all of the old skills had come back? She hoped they never would, damn it! But just now she needed them, needed something to calm this panic she felt.