Vacant by Alex Hughes Page A

first. You’ll want to get up to speed on the judge’s high-profile case as well, but only after you meet Tommy and get your Minding magic set up. I’m afraid we’re a day late and a dollar short right now, and you’re coming in late, but we need to catch up. I’ll start bringing you personnel to get familiar with later today.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, for lack of anything better. I was starting to get the impression their old telepath worked with the team very, very well. Trying to jump in on no notice, on something that wasn’t my specialty . . . well, it could get very bad very quickly. And Jarrod didn’t seem patient with a learning curve.
    â€œThe guard is in the front parlor,” Jarrod supplied. “Near the kitchen. Send Loyola out here please.”
    I took that as a dismissal, and worried though I was, after a quick glance to identify another suited agent behind me where the extra mind had been, I went forward into the house.

CHAPTER 5
    The inside had been renovated in surprisingly modern colors and furniture. Ugly, in my opinion. The entryway opened into two rooms to the left and right, with another longer hall farther on. To be honest, I hated the house immediately from the inside; it was all art and artistic texture in contrasting colors like a designer had been allowed to work freely. Even the furniture was in unconventional, odd shapes. The couch in the right room looked like a praying mantis hunched over. It had to be custom, and expensive, but it just looked strange. The old wooden floors and the ancient crown molding were the only parts of the room I liked at all; the rest was a riot of texture and color and planning that just seemed . . . busy. Like it was trying too hard. Pretentious, but not in an interesting way.
    In the center of the rightward room was the man I’d met first, the ex-military guy who’d asked me if I was a telepath. He stood about four feet from a woman perched precariously on a chair shaped like a tilted cereal bowl. She was at least thirty, with pretty microbraids, practical but professional clothes, and a statement necklace I suspected held a hidden weapon. Her arm was in a makeshift sling, and she sat, slumped a little, with a cloud of frustration and grief hanging over her in Mindspace. For all that herappearance was not what I was expecting, this was clearly the bodyguard.
    â€œWhat’s your name, one more time?” I asked the ex-military guy as I got closer.
    â€œSpecial Agent Loyola.”
    â€œLike the saint?”
    â€œThat’s right,” he said in a tone that dared me to make something of it.
    â€œI didn’t think the FBI normally did protection duty,” I said, the detail suddenly bothering me.
    â€œWe do a hell of a lot of weird stuff in this unit,” he said. He was thinking that some of it was because, unlike a lot of people in the FBI, they didn’t mind working with telepaths and other unusual talent.
    â€œUm, Jarrod wants you at the porch,” I said.
    Loyola nodded and moved back out through the front door. It closed behind him.
    I went back to the front parlor, where a vase perched on a coffee table, a flat slab of what had probably once been an industrial sign of some kind. It seemed the most normal sitting surface in the room, and with the sunlight pouring in through the large window behind me, its metal surface was warm and inviting. This was probably a lie—the only surface and the only moment in the whole experience that was the least bit inviting. I shouldn’t take it seriously. But it did seem the only flat surface, so I sat down.
    I introduced myself to the bodyguard, who I could see now that I was closer, was clearly fighting off guilt. I decided to treat this like any other interrogation, a gentle one, aimed at a witness and not an immediate suspect, but an interrogation all the same.
    The vision and my urgency were pulling at me to find the