Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ he testing her skill? Or just hell-bent on giving her a hard time? Either way, she was used to proving herself. Most law enforcement officials—skeptical by nature and suspicious by training—didn’t believe in her ability. And those who did, like Detective Muncy, didn’t admit, at least publicly, that he consulted a psychic. The press would have a field day if they knew how many investigations she’d been involved in.

      She finally answered West’s question. “No, I haven’t gotten any vibes about the Slasher’s calling card.”

      “So what’s your opinion? Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

      “Yes,” she responded, knowing full well she was talking to a highly educated man with several advanced degrees. But that didn’t make her opinion any less valuable. Olivia’s gift gave her an edge.

      “Why?” he pressed. “Why a serial killer?”

      “Because he perpetrated random murders, with an emotional cooling-off period in between. The victims were unrelated. They didn’t know each other,” she clarified. “And each had been slain in a different location.” She shuffled the autopsy pictures, stacking them like a deck of cards. “So far, the Slasher has gone after married women.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his MO, she thought. Single girls could be at risk, too.

      “Two of our victims were cheating on their husbands,” West remarked.

      “But Denise wasn’t. At least not that we know of.”

      “So you think this is one killer? One man?”

      Olivia nodded. “That’s the feeling I have. My intuition.”

      “Why not multiple offenders? The forensic evidence is inconclusive.” A frown marred West’s forehead, carving a groove into his skin. “In fact, it’s downright weird. Footprints that appear then disappear, hair samples that test human one time and animal the next. Nothing makes any sense.” He shifted his weight. He was still perched on the edge of the table. “Do you have an answer for any of that?”

      “Actually, she does.” This came from Muncy, who rose from his chair. “Olivia thinks the killer has supernatural powers.”

      “Really?” West’s frown remained, deep and dark and troubled. “And do you agree with her analysis, Detective?”

      “I’m inclined to.”

      The profiler turned to Riggs. “And you?”

      Her blue eyes locked onto his. “It’s a baffling case.”

      The special agent nodded. “That it is.” He tunneled his hands through his hair, quietly perplexed. Then he addressed Olivia. “Do you think the killer is a skinwalker?”

      She tilted her head. “It’s hard to say. There are other tribes besides the Navajo that have witches among them.” And his attitude confused her. Why would a man who believed in supernatural beings resent working with a psychic?

      Because he envied her power, her mind answered. West wanted what she had. The ability she possessed.

      “You better be careful,” he said, reminding her once again that the Slasher was attacking American Indian women.

      Like her. And her sister.

      She thought about Allie, about how gentle her younger sibling was. Then she glanced at West.

      Suddenly his eyes, those odd gray eyes, were glowing.

      Like a witch.

      Twenty minutes later Olivia took the 101, engaging the gas petal, gaining speed, switching lanes, snarling at the late-day traffic.

      She kept telling herself that West’s eyes were a trick of the light, an illusion. He wasn’t powerful enough to be a witch.

      Darting past a poky compact, she accelerated again, her vintage Porsche purring with elation, the wind whipping through the convertible, stinging her face. And then she wondered what the hell she was doing.

      Why was she on the freeway? She lived in a loft downtown, just minutes from the police station.

      Suddenly her vehicle chose its own path, forcing her to fight the wheel.

      Battling the entity inside her car, she screamed at it, warning it to leave her alone. Sounds from the road sliced past her ears, fast, furious, overwhelming.

      Her tires hugged the lane, spinning like black holes in space. But when she saw the Highland exit, she knew.

      She understood.

      A ghost, a wanagi in her father’s language, was taking her to him. Not to his grave, but to the motel where he’d blown out his brains.

      “All right,” she whispered. “I’ll go there.” The wheel on the Porsche was no longer locked, but her destination had been forged just the same.

      She drove to the motel, a place she’d been avoiding for years. Aside from a fresh coat of paint, it looked the same, an attractive building on a side street off Sunset Boulevard, with yellow trim and a swimming pool surrounded by empty lounge chairs.

      She parked in front of Room 112 and stared at the heavy beige drapes in the window.

      Now what? she asked herself. What difference did this make? She’d been having visions about her dad since the night he’d killed himself.

      She’d seen it happen before he’d pulled the trigger.

      But her mad rush to save him had failed, even with Detective Muncy’s help. They’d called a list of motels in the Hollywood area, working in alphabetical order, checking registries, trying to pinpoint the location in her vision.

      Olivia stared at the drapes again. The Z-Sleep Inn had been the last place on their list, a motel they’d never gotten the chance to call.

      Instead, another guest had heard the shot and reported it to the front desk.

      In the end Joseph Whirlwind had been found, alone on the bed, blood gushing out of his nose and mouth, the back of his head splattered on the wall behind him, chips of his skull imbedded in the plaster.

      A biohazard removal company had cleaned up the mess, but no one could erase the recurring vision from her mind.

      She looked up at the sky, knowing it was going to happen. Unable to stop it, she waited, her heart pounding with anxiety, with memories tangling like vines.

      Then suddenly the familiar image sluiced through her brain, as vivid as a horror film bursting with surround sound.

      She could hear her father’s erratic breathing. He paced the room, passing the unmade bed. The quilt was a pleasant shade of blue, mottled with a green-and-yellow design. Joseph wanted to shred it.

      Edgy, he glanced at the.44 Magnum on the night-stand. It was an old gun, a weapon he’d had since the seventies. Dirty Harry style, he thought, wishing he’d had a career like Clint Eastwood.

      But Joseph was Lakota, an actor who refused to play parts that stereotyped СКАЧАТЬ