Christmas Kidnapping. Cindi Myers

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ href="#u336be238-39a1-5d6c-a9db-192138035e92">Extract

       Copyright

Chapter One

      Experience had taught Andrea McNeil to trust her first impressions of a man. She had learned to read temperament and tendencies in the set of his shoulders and the shadows in his eyes. Whether they were heroes or the perpetrators of heinous crimes, they all revealed themselves to her as much by their silences as by what they said.

      The man who stood before her now radiated both strength and anxiety in the stubborn set of his broad shoulders and the tight line of his square jaw. He wore his blond hair short and neat, his face clean shaven, his posture military straight, though he was dressed in jeans, hiking boots and a button-down shirt and not a uniform. He moved with the raw sensuality of a hunter, muscular shoulders sliding beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, and when his hazel eyes met hers, she saw pride and courage and deep grief.

      “All I want you to do is help me remember the face of the man who killed my friend,” he said, before she had even invited him to sit on the sofa across from her chair in her small office just off the main street of Durango, Colorado.

      She didn’t allow her face to betray alarm at his statement. This certainly wasn’t the worst thing she had heard from the people who came to her for help. “Please sit down, Agent Prescott, and I’ll tell you a little more about how I work.”

      FBI special agent Jack Prescott lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

      “I’m fine.”

      She kept her gaze steady on him, letting him know she wasn’t buying this statement.

      He shifted again. “I took a couple of bullets in a firefight a couple of months back,” he said. “The cold bothers me a little.”

      The window behind him showed a gentle snowfall, the remnants from the latest winter storm. A man who had been shot—twice—and was still on medical leave probably ought to be home recuperating, but she might as well have told a man like Jack Prescott that he needed to take up knitting and mah-jongg. She didn’t have to read the information sheet he had filled out to know that much about him. Even sitting still across from her, he looked poised to leap into action. She would have bet next month’s rent that he was armed at the moment and that he had called into his office at least once a day every day of his enforced time off.

      Her husband, Preston, had been the same way. All his devotion to duty and reckless courage had gotten him in the end was killed.

      She focused on Agent Prescott’s paperwork to force the memories back into the locked box where they belonged. Jack Prescott was single, thirty-four years old and a graduate of Columbia with a major in electrical engineering and robotics. Twelve years with the FBI. A letter of commendation. He was in Durango on special assignment and currently on medical leave. He took no medications beyond the antibiotics prescribed for his gunshot wounds, and he had no known allergies. “Tell me about this firefight,” she said. “The one in which you were injured.”

      He sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, gripping his knees. “What happened to me doesn’t matter,” he said. “But my friend Gus Mathers was killed in that fight. I saw it happen. I saw who killed him.”

      “That would be traumatic for anyone,” she said.

      “You don’t understand. I saw the man who killed Gus, but I can’t remember his face.”

      “What you’re talking about is upsetting, but it’s not unusual,” she said. “The mind often blocks out the memory of traumatic events as a means of protection.”

      He leaned forward, his gaze boring into her, his expression fierce. “You don’t understand. I don’t forget faces. It’s what I do, the way some people remember numbers or have perfect pitch.”

      She set aside the clipboard with the paperwork and leaned toward him, letting him know she was focused completely on him. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said.

      “I’m what they call a super-recognizer. If I look at someone for even a few seconds, I remember them. I remember supermarket clerks and bus drivers and people I pass on the street. Yet I can’t remember the man who murdered my best friend.”

      “Your talent for remembering faces doesn’t exempt you from the usual responses to trauma,” she said. “Your memory of the events may come back with time, or it may never return.”

      He set his jaw, the look of a man who was used to forcing the outcome he desired. “The cop who referred me to you said you could hypnotize me—that that might be a way to get the memory to return.”

      “I do sometimes use hypnosis in my therapy, but in your case, I don’t believe it would work.”

      “Why not?”

      Because there are some things even a will as strong as yours can’t make happen, she thought. “Hypnosis requires the subject to relax and surrender to the process,” she said. “In order for me to hypnotize you, you would have to trust me and be willing to surrender control of the situation. You aren’t a man who is used to surrendering, and you haven’t known me long enough to trust me.”

      “You’re saying I’m a control freak.”

      She smiled at his choice of words. “Your job—your survival and the survival of those who work with you—requires you to control as many variables as possible,” she said. “In this case, your need to control is an asset.” Most of the time.

      “I want you to hypnotize me,” he said.

      “Consciously wanting to be hypnotized and your conscious mind being willing to relax enough to allow that to happen are two different things,” she said. “I’m certainly willing to attempt hypnotic therapy at some point, but not on a first visit. It’s too soon. Once we have explored the issues that may be causing you to suppress this memory, we may have more success in retrieving it, through hypnosis or by some other means.”

      He stood and began to pace, a caged tiger—one with a limp that, even agitated, he tried to disguise. “I don’t need to talk about my feelings,” he said, delivering the words with a sneer. “I don’t need therapy. I know the memory of the man who shot Gus is in my head. I just have to find a way to access that information again.”

      “Agent Prescott, please sit down.”

      “No. If you can’t help me, I won’t waste any more of your time.”

      He turned toward the door. “Please, don’t go,” she called. His agitation and real grief touched her. “I’m willing to try things your way. But I don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t work.”

      He sat again, tension still radiating from him, but some of the darkness had gone out of his eyes. “What do I do?”

      “You don’t do anything,” she said. “The whole point is to relax and not try to control the situation. Why don’t you start by taking off your shoes and lying back on the couch? Get comfortable.”

      He hesitated, then removed his hiking boots СКАЧАТЬ