One Week To Live by Joan Beth Erickson Page B

hope. He gently took her elbow and guided her away from the open car door. “I believe in you. You can play his game with your own deck of cards. Use your psychic talent to stack the deck in your favor.”
    “How? I’m not connecting with him, seeing glimpses into his mind, visualizing the world through his eyes. In the Tucker case, those glimpses were unsettling but useful. This time I don’t even know when he’s standing right next to me.”
    “His brazenness could get him caught,” Brian pointed out. The garage echoed with the squeal of car tires as someone peeled out of a nearby parking space. He moved closer to Angie and studied the car as it roared past.
    “I doubt it,” she argued, her eyes following the retreating car.
    “The man is blocking his thoughts this time, preventing you from reading them.”
    “Can someone do that?”
    “I’ve heard some people are capable of mind control, particularly those trained in the martial arts.”
    “And how am I supposed to work around that?” she asked, frustration filling her voice.
    “There has to be a chink in his armor. He can’t practice mind control all the time.”
    “Shit! There’s no way I’m stacking the deck against him. He’s got the upper hand, making me powerless.”
    He studied her, a question nagging at his reporter’s instincts. Why did she appear more emotional about this victim than the last one? Was it because she hadn’t been able to help save Tucker’s boy, or was it something else?
    “Do we need to call Dunning and report this?” she asked.
    “Unfortunately, yes.”
    With no cell reception in the garage, he needed to go outside to make the call. Worried about her safety, he wanted her to go with him but she refused. Silently cursing her stubbornness, he quickly made the call and returned to her. She stood by the open car door clutching a dead rose in her hand, her face pale, her eyes closed.
    He’d seen her receive visions before and knew she’d just experienced one. “Angie?” he said softly. “What did you see?”
    She opened her eyes, stared for a moment at the flower then dropped it. Dried petals broke from the stem and scattered. “A grave,” she whispered.
    “What?”
    “I’ve seen a grave.” She looked at him. “A small mound of dirt. A child’s grave with dead roses scattered across it.”
    He thought of another grave, his own son’s, covered with fresh flowers. He gritted his teeth, fighting off long-suppressed emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. God, he hated when the memories flooded back. Memories he’d worked hard to compartmentalize with everything else in his life he wanted to forget. Was Joe right? Was returning to Vegas a mistake?
    Tucking the image away, he forced himself to focus on her. “Could you see where the grave was?”
    “No. The vision was like all the others. A brief flash that quickly vanished.” Fear filled her eyes.
    “Don’t go there. Polly is alive.”
    “But the grave.” She brushed at the tears welling up. This time he gently pulled her into his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder. It had been a long time since a woman sought solace from him. When their son died, his wife refused the comfort he’d wanted to give. Comfort he’d needed in return, but never received. Instead, she gave him divorce papers.
    When he finally let her go, her tear-filled eyes held a look he couldn’t decipher. Dunning arrived before he could figure it out.
    The man and his team quickly bagged the dead flowers and the note.
    “Miss Martin, do you have any idea who would have given you these flowers?” Dunning asked.
    “No, I don’t. Do you have any idea how they got in my car since the door’s locked,” she snapped back
    “Someone must have a key and a somewhat sick sense of humor,” he said.
    “Did you see the note? I wouldn’t call that humor.” Brian’s contempt for the man welled up. Angie was frightened and this man was treating what had happened lightly. What a