this subterfuge all the worse. There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “I’m going to follow this up with paperwork ASAP but this comes directly from Ben. We need to know what that material is, where it can be obtained, and who could have obtained it.” His voice took on the real urgency that he felt. “It can’t happen soon enough, Lou. The city is in a panic. The agents here are smarting from an abduction in their backyard. And we need to make progress; something tangible, something real, that we can use.”
That I can use , Mac thought. That will lead me to Isabelle.
“Right,” Lou said. “Let me see where we are and I’ll let you know.”
That wasn’t good enough.
“Today,” Mac said, a statement and not a question.
Again there was a pause.
“Today,” Lou finally said. “The toilet cleaning can wait.”
• • • • •
Psychic or no , Prentiss thought. This is going to end.
“God damn it!” he swore, as he stared down at Isabelle’s still form. Then he whirled away from her, picked up the chair and threw it through the cell door. “God damn it!”
She was utterly perfect and inconceivably horrific all at the same time.
Prentiss held his head and paced in a tight circle in the cell.
What to do? What to do?
She had talked about his mother!
He stopped in front of the metal wall and pounded the stenciled cell number with his fists.
My mother!
His mother’s face flashed in front of him, a face he’d managed to push away for years . A petite brunette, long hair, her features not unattractive. But her lips quickly curled into something feral, her nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed to dark slits.
And then the knife slashed toward him.
She’d aimed for his balls but he’d moved too quick. Prentiss banged the jail cell wall again as the memory of the knife sinking into his kneecap and slicing up his thigh hit full force.
“Mother!” he cried out. “My leg!”
He slid down the wall, his palms scraping over peeling paint, and landed on the floor on his knees. Breathing hard, he squeezed his eyes closed trying to will the memory away.
But it was too late. What had begun had to be finished.
Suddenly, the kitchen knife was his, his teenage hands easily wresting the weapon from his smaller opponent. He drove it into her chest.
“ Bitch ,” he yelled, saliva dripping from his mouth. Her eyes went wide and her mouth twisted and gaped at the pain. “ Bitch ,” he breathed, as she fell backward and he landed on top. He watched, unable to turn away, breathing hard, as the light faded from her eyes.
Prentiss blinked at the jail cell wall, his chest heaving, his hands on the metal the only thing keeping him upright.
“ Bitch ,” he whispered, as he rubbed his knee.
It’d taken years to learn how to walk without a limp. The scar was painful, rubbing on the inside of his pants, but he couldn’t wear shorts. He couldn’t let anyone see. It was red and thick, a jagged and mounded line of skin that never became smoother. And it had only become more painful over time. He’d taken to sleeping with a pillow next to his knee to keep the sheet from touching it. He’d never seen a doctor. Too many questions would have been raised. He’d bandaged it himself and then dumped his mother’s body in the swamp behind their shack. That was probably how it’d gotten infected.
He rubbed it hard, through the black slacks, pressing his palm down viciously–using the pain to ground him. He’d killed that bitch. He’d killed them all.
Slowly, he swung his gaze back to Isabelle.
• • • • •
Instead of pain, disorientation was the first thing that Isabelle felt. Something had changed. Slowly, she opened her eyes to bright light and had to squint.
Where am I?
As she tried to look, she realized she was raising her head. It had been tilted all the way back, felt like a million pounds and the back of her neck ached. As she tried to sit upright, her
That I can use , Mac thought. That will lead me to Isabelle.
“Right,” Lou said. “Let me see where we are and I’ll let you know.”
That wasn’t good enough.
“Today,” Mac said, a statement and not a question.
Again there was a pause.
“Today,” Lou finally said. “The toilet cleaning can wait.”
• • • • •
Psychic or no , Prentiss thought. This is going to end.
“God damn it!” he swore, as he stared down at Isabelle’s still form. Then he whirled away from her, picked up the chair and threw it through the cell door. “God damn it!”
She was utterly perfect and inconceivably horrific all at the same time.
Prentiss held his head and paced in a tight circle in the cell.
What to do? What to do?
She had talked about his mother!
He stopped in front of the metal wall and pounded the stenciled cell number with his fists.
My mother!
His mother’s face flashed in front of him, a face he’d managed to push away for years . A petite brunette, long hair, her features not unattractive. But her lips quickly curled into something feral, her nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed to dark slits.
And then the knife slashed toward him.
She’d aimed for his balls but he’d moved too quick. Prentiss banged the jail cell wall again as the memory of the knife sinking into his kneecap and slicing up his thigh hit full force.
“Mother!” he cried out. “My leg!”
He slid down the wall, his palms scraping over peeling paint, and landed on the floor on his knees. Breathing hard, he squeezed his eyes closed trying to will the memory away.
But it was too late. What had begun had to be finished.
Suddenly, the kitchen knife was his, his teenage hands easily wresting the weapon from his smaller opponent. He drove it into her chest.
“ Bitch ,” he yelled, saliva dripping from his mouth. Her eyes went wide and her mouth twisted and gaped at the pain. “ Bitch ,” he breathed, as she fell backward and he landed on top. He watched, unable to turn away, breathing hard, as the light faded from her eyes.
Prentiss blinked at the jail cell wall, his chest heaving, his hands on the metal the only thing keeping him upright.
“ Bitch ,” he whispered, as he rubbed his knee.
It’d taken years to learn how to walk without a limp. The scar was painful, rubbing on the inside of his pants, but he couldn’t wear shorts. He couldn’t let anyone see. It was red and thick, a jagged and mounded line of skin that never became smoother. And it had only become more painful over time. He’d taken to sleeping with a pillow next to his knee to keep the sheet from touching it. He’d never seen a doctor. Too many questions would have been raised. He’d bandaged it himself and then dumped his mother’s body in the swamp behind their shack. That was probably how it’d gotten infected.
He rubbed it hard, through the black slacks, pressing his palm down viciously–using the pain to ground him. He’d killed that bitch. He’d killed them all.
Slowly, he swung his gaze back to Isabelle.
• • • • •
Instead of pain, disorientation was the first thing that Isabelle felt. Something had changed. Slowly, she opened her eyes to bright light and had to squint.
Where am I?
As she tried to look, she realized she was raising her head. It had been tilted all the way back, felt like a million pounds and the back of her neck ached. As she tried to sit upright, her
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