Zeke lifted the binoculars, waited.“Looks like both of them.”
“Okay.Let me out.You follow them.I’m going to recon the house.”It was a sudden decision, one that he might regret later.“Don’t let anything happen to her, Zeke.”
“Course not.”The van started with a swift purr.
“I mean it.Anything goes down, you keep her skin whole.”
“Igotit, Del.You coming or not?”
“No.I want to see where she sleeps.”Delgado slid out of the van, his little bag of tricks already strapped on.Messenger bags coming back into style had been good news for covert operations.“Good luck.”
“And you.”Zeke drove away, keeping under the speed limit, drifting after the ancient, silvery Volvo station wagon.
Delgado waited, scanning the street from the shelter of a convenient laurel hedge.Nothing out of tune, even to his senses.He called in, but Henderson’s voice mail came on.
Something must be going down,he thought, listening to the electronic voice recite the number.After the beep, he paused for a second.“This is Del.Instinct’s taken over.Doing some recon.Zeke’s got the subject.Call me if necessary.”Then he switched the phone to “vibrate” and stuffed it in his front jacket pocket.
It was child’s play to penetrate the back yard: neat garden-boxes and a well-maintained, slightly shabby lawn that would be shaded by old oak trees and a high juniper hedge in summer.The back door, as he’d guessed, only had one deadbolt, and a few moments with picks made the lock yield.The whole place was empty and open, no invisible defenses except for the natural “static” surrounding people’s houses.How a psi could stand to live here was beyond him.
A pretty kitchen with deep-green countertops, matching towels, and dishes piled in the sink met his inspection.Delgado’s fingers itched to touch, even through latex gloves.He overrode the urge; it was weakness.Why did I come down on Zeke?He looked down at the coffee cups in the sink.They were blue and gray pottery mugs, handmade, obviously well-loved.He knows his job.I shouldn’t have said that.I don’t even know this woman.There was a rack of herbs in terracotta pots set in the bay window, and an airplane plant hung over the counter by the back door.The plants glowed with health.
The house was comfortable rather than chic, overstuffed chairs, potted plants, soothing colors, very few sharp edges or avant-garde touches.A painting of a woman with long brown hair and hazel eyes hung in the foyer, watching the door with a benevolent smile.She looked enough like Rowan that Delgado guessed she was a family member.A ficus stood next to the stairs in a brass pot, green and succulent.
He went up the stairs slowly, savoring the feel of the house.Normal.Safe.A haven.
What the hell are you doing?You’re not going to get anything from this.She’s a civilian.
He told that voice to take a long hike and it went quietly, with very little fuss.His conscience usually did.
At the top of the stairs—the banister had been carefully repaired, probably by dear old dad—a hall led to two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small niche filled with bookshelves.
He tried the nearest room first.A military-neat bed with a plain headboard, shelves of books on military history and strategy shared space with New Age titles, psychic phenomena, and weird occurrences.Dad was a believer.
There was an old-fashioned lamp with a green shade on his nightstand and a closet of neatly pressed suits, a set of dress blues swathed in plastic, a Navy storage locker labeledPRICEheld up four pairs of shoes.A pair of boots stood obediently on the closet floor next to the storage locker.The dresser held a mirror, an old ceramic washbasin, a Wandering Jew in a blue pot, and pictures in plain frames.Some of the pictures were of a smiling little blonde girl—Rowan.The other pictures were of the woman painted downstairs.Definitely Mom, then.
Delgado moved down the hall.The bathroom was spic-and-span, done in cream with touches of wine-red, the smell of soap still hanging in the air.The shower curtain was still wet.She took a shower here.Examining the bar of soap.Bubble-gum toothpaste.Three different types of feminine shampoo—evidently she took her hair seriously.Dad used Vitalis.There were some bath salts in the mirrored cabinet, but most of the space was taken up with medications for Dad’s heart condition and the various ills of aging.The linen closet built into the wall held towels and sundries.
Now for what he’d been waiting for.
Delgado entered what should be her room.
Bingo.
Her exercise wear was thrown across the top of a plastic laundry basket that held crumpled nurse’s scrubs.He took a deep lungful of the air here—this was where she slept.Christ, I’m really getting attached, aren’t I?That isn’t good.There was a breath of perfume, a female smell, his heart pounded against his ribs.He wondered what it would be like to hear her even breathing, to feel that pale hair brushing against his face.
A missionary bedstead of plain pine, its severe lines softened by a white down comforter and a white lace spread, lay rumpled and open.Her sheets were a sunny yellow, and the walls were painted the same color.Even in the dead of winter, the room would glow with sunlight.Four bookshelves, made of the same unvarnished pine, held books and African violets.A philodendron hung in the window, its leaves glowing green.There was also a large healthy mother-in-law’s-tongue plant set in a yellow pot between the dresser and the window.
Delgado examined the books, his hands behind his back.
Poetry.Lots of poetry.Medieval history.Medical textbooks, a DSM, a Tabor’s, Gray’s Anatomy, PDR, NDR, guides to prescription drugs, a Mosby’s, several books on nursing and psychiatry.No fiction, no science fiction, nothing on paranormal phenomena, nothing on psychics, nothing on the occult.
That wasveryinteresting.
There was a definite section on ancient Rome, and some biographies—Churchill, Catherine the Great, Anäis Nin—a small section of modern history, and a smattering of books on death and grieving.
Does she even know she’s psi?She has to.There’s no way she couldn’t.So what is this?She’s obviously well-educated.
Her dresser held the first clutter he had seen in the house, a jumble of perfumes, a hairbrush with strands of ash-blonde hair attached, a few crystal necklaces, earrings tossed in a small ceramic dish.A small rosewood jewelry box held a strand of pearls, two diamond necklaces, two wedding rings—both antique, probably heirlooms—an East Santiago High School class ring, a pair of antique ruby earrings, her father’s dog tags, and a few bits of rhinestone costume jewelry from the twenties.There were a few crumpled bits of paper, a Mason jar almost full of spare change, an old driver’s license… and a clear glass paperweight, bubbles frozen forever.There was no mirror in her room, which he also found intriguing.The picture forming from her possessions was a very interesting one.
