
Mind Reader
Classic Romantic Suspense
âA tense, action-filled story of suspense that will keep you turning the pages.â Â Â Â Â Â
* Two Time Maggie Award of Excellence Finalist *
From the USA Today Bestselling Author Vicki Hinze comes The Reunited Hearts, a romantic suspense series of standalone novels with couples in dangerous situations who reunite in atypical ways.
She knows a childâs life is in danger but no one believes her.
He knows she is a fraud and is out to prove it.
They seek the truth and discover it can set you freeâŠor kill you.
In Mind Reader, (first released in 1993 and rewritten for release as a clean read in this edition), Caron Chalmers is an empath. A mind reader cursed with imaging only victims. She sees what they see, feels what they feel, endures what they endure and has since she was seven. But even with all the sensory perception and insights, sometimes she fails to save victims. Sometimes she wrongly interprets the signsâand a year ago, she did exactly that. She messed up and a victim died. Caron nearly died with her. Her âgiftâ shut down.
Now itâs back. Thereâs another victimâthis time, a childâand because of the mistake made last year and the shut-down, her police contact, though aware of her many successes, isnât willing to stake his career on her. Yet he canât dismiss her so he calls in help from private investigator Parker Simms: a man with a past as bleak as Caronâs and a specific agenda of his own: proving Caron Chalmers is the fraud he believes her to be.
In a hostile alliance, Caron and Parker seek the truthâŠand discover a labyrinth of lies and deceptions that require skills and experience they have and trust they donât but must somehow find before the child becomes another victim lost. Yet trust never comes without costs, and some are too steep to pay.
The situation grows desperate. Time for the childâs survival grows shortâŠand for Caron and Parker, who must live with the consequences of missteps and wrong moves, this is exactly the wrong time to be on the brink of falling in love. The dire situation grows worse, the unthinkable happens, and stakes that couldnât get any higher soar.
Books in the Hearts Reunited Series:
Her Perfect Life, #1
Mind Reader, #2
Duplicity, #3
PRAISE for Vicki Hinze Novels:Â On MIND READER
âThis is not a book to be begun at midnight. As tightly controlled a mystery/thriller as Iâve read in a long time. Not to be missed.â â Heartland Critiques
âI loved this thrilling, suspenseful, and emotionally moving storyâfrom the first page, I was hooked!â â Rendezvous
âA powerful new author. A strong, emotional story of real people. Will worm their way into your heart and stay there.â
â The Talisman
âA tense, action-filled story of suspense that will keep you turning the pages.ââ Affaire de Coeur
âVictoria Cole [Hinze/Barrett] writes with a fresh ingenuity and intensity that will make readers eagerly anticipate future works.â
â Romantic Times
âA story that turns your blood hotâand coldâby turns. Plenty of chills, plenty of thrills.â â Nora Powers, author
MIND READER
 by
Vicki Hinze
Copyright © 1993 by Vicki Hinze
Chapter 1
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It was about to happen again.
She knew it. Sensed it. Smelled it as distinctly as she smelled the freshly brewed coffee in her kitchen. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
The images forming in her mind were as vivid and real as the chips in the porcelain tabletop in front of her. As real as the steam rising from her coffee cup. And because they were real, dread and cold fear clawed at her stomach. She knew what would come next, and yet she was powerless to stop it.
Rain pelted against the window of her apartment. Caron stared at the flattened drops beading on the pane, wishing she could force the image away.
Then it was too late for wishing. The image was there. The image of a little girl, eight, maybe nine, with shoulder-length brown hair and wide green eyes that were almost black with fearâmore fear than any human being should ever know.
Caron swallowed hard. Where was the girl now? The lighting was dim, everything was blurry. Focusing all her energy and concentration on the girl and her surroundings, Caron tried to sharpen the image. But a sense of betrayal grew strong, then stronger and stronger, until Caron couldnât get past it to pick up on anything else. Acid churned in her stomach. She began to shake, then to shudder. It was happening againâjust as it had with Sarah!
Caron clenched her muscles, fighting the resentment she felt at her life once more turning topsy-turvy, spinning out of controlâand fighting the guilt that came with the resentment. From the time she was seven, she had considered the images confusing, a curse, because even then she hadnât seen ordinary people. She had seen victims.
And Sarah Jamesâs case had proven Caron right; she was cursed. That case, a year ago, was the last sheâd helped Sandy with, and after it, everything had changed. After nineteen years, the images suddenly had stopped.
Now they were back.
Why did she have to go through this again? Why?
The need to hear someoneâs voiceâanyoneâs voiceâhit her hard. Caron sent the phone a desperate look. She could call Dr. Zilinger, her analyst, or her aunt Graceâanyone buther mother. Her mother never had understood why Caron didnât just âignoreâ the images, and all the explanations in the world hadnât convinced her mother that Caron could no more ignore them than her mother could have ignored the pain of childbirth.
A sense of urgency seeped through Caronâs chest. Sandy. She had to talk to Sandy. She grabbed the phone and dialed.
It seemed to ring forever, but he finally answered, âYeah, Sanders here,â he said.
His familiar gruff voice helped ease the lump from her throat, but the tightness in her chest remained. âSandy.â Why, after all this time, was talking to him so difficult? âIâm on my way to your office. We have to talk.â
âCaron?â He sounded surprised.
She supposed he was surprised. It had been nearly a year since her last call. âYes, itâs me.â
âWhatâs wrong?â
His wary tone held fear, a fear sheâd felt before and had hoped sheâd never feel again. But now she was. The receiver in her hand grew sweat-slick. The words choked her.
âItâs happening all over again.â Her voice cracked. She slumped against the counter and held on.
âIâll come to you. Where are you?â
âNo.â She was scared stiff, but she couldnât lean on him, or on anyone other than herself. If nothing else, sheâd learned that. Her temples were pounding. Rubbing circles on the left one, she forced her eyes open. âNo, Iâll come to you.â
She slid the receiver back onto the hook, her hand shaking. She should have been stronger and not deluded herself into believing that the images would never come back. But she hadnât. Now she would have to fight this battle the same way sheâd fought all the othersâalone.
Caron grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
Outside, she dipped her head against the rain and ran, dodging murky puddles and dark patches of soft, squishy mud. Water gushed along the curb to the drain and splashed down with a hollow thunk somewhere beneath the street. She took a giant step over the water and climbed into her Chevy. Then while the engine warmed, she tissued the raindrops from her face.
The images were back. When theyâd stopped, sheâd felt naked without them. The way a man must feel when he discovered he was going baldâat the mercy of his body, helpless.
She tossed the soaked tissue onto the floor mat. Seeing the images was like that. She was helpless to stop them. No matter how much she wanted just to teach her students, just to be normal, she was reduced to suffering the empathy pains and the emotional upheaval of the victims, and to wondering, Why me?
A crash of thunder shook the car. A bare-limbed oak tree to her right became the image of a dark-haired man with a stubbly chin and wicked green eyes. He belched, and the smell of beer nearly gagged Caron. Lightning flashed, a little sizzle rent the air, and then, as quickly as it had come, the image disappeared. Shaking, Caron rolled down the window an inch. Rain and fresh air rushed into the car on a chilly gust. The wind whistled and whipped at the craggy oaks lining the scrap of lawn in front of the apartments.
The limbs looked like sneering gargoyles, twisted, grotesque and menacing.
âGod, help me,â Caron whispered. âIâm suffering a landslide.â
A horn sounded in a long, steady blast from in front of the corner store across the street. Her stomach muscles clenched. Seeking solace in common, ordinary things, she gripped the steering wheel hard and watched the wipers sweep the windshield, click at the base, then sweep back again. The storeâs illuminated yellow sign flickered as the power fluctuated. It read â2 Liter Cokes $1.29.â A car sped past, kicking up a spray of water, and a kid hung out the window yelling at a second guy who was getting into his car. âHey, Bobby, come on, man!â
She didnât know either boy, but at that moment she knew their thoughts and feelings. Knew them physically. Bobby was late for the basketball game. David, the one hanging out the window, was ticked that he was missing the tip-off.
There was no solace.
The little girlâs image snapped back into focus. Caron felt the childâs fear, the grisly sense of betrayal, and cringed. She couldnât ignore the images. Not now. Not ever. She had to accept the inevitable. The images had come again, and she was doomed to suffer them.
Every self-preserving instinct in her body screamed for her to run. Yet she couldnât. Whoever she was, this child was hurt and confused and afraid, and she was not going to face whatever happened alone.
Caron straightened, slammed the gearshift into Drive, and pulled out into traffic, hoping her bravado would outlast the time it took her to drive to police headquarters.
âAnytime today would be just fine, maâam.â
Caron jerked and looked back. A drop-dead-gorgeous guy in a flashy black Porsche waved an impatient hand for her to vacate the parking slot.
âIâm coming, not going,â Caron said, sliding the man a withering look and easing the Chevy alongside the curb. Not even his looks could excuse his sarcasm.
The man nodded, then drove on.
âCharming,â she muttered, tugging her keys from the ignition. She snatched up her purse, then went inside.
Detective Hershel Sanders was in his same dismal office. Surrounded by gray metal cabinets and awful green walls, and so cramped he couldnât turn around without bumping his little paunch, Sandy sat buried behind the mountain of files on his desk, an unlit cigar stub clamped between his teeth.
According to Dr. Zilinger, Sandy hadnât lit up since Jim Garrison dragged New Orleans into national focus, claiming Kennedyâs assassination was a political conspiracy. The district attorney had lost his job, and because Sandy had agreed with him, heâd been demoted and left to swelter in this hole ever since, punching the clock and waiting for retirement.
Caron plastered a smile to her lips, folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. âStill hiding behind the clutter, Detective?â
Sandy looked up. His gaze, seen through his black-framed, half-moon glasses, hadnât yet focused. A shock of blond hair sprung out from his head. Heâd been forking his fingers through it again. He should let it grow and ditch the glasses and the stubby cigar. Itâd take ten years off of him.
For a second, his jaw hung loose. Then he whipped off his glasses and slapped his palm down on his desk blotter. âWhereâve you been, kid?â
To the fiftyish Sandy, the twenty-six-year-old Caron would always be the seven year old sheâd been when they first worked together. âOh, nowhere special,â she said.
She knew she was being evasive, but she didnât want to share her ânormalâ life with him. She wanted to hoard every moment of that time to herself. A normal life was all sheâd ever wanted, and sheâd had a taste of it. Now that the images were back, her memories of normalcy were even more precious, and more private.
She walked inâand saw that he wasnât alone. A man pushing thirty sat scrunched up in a chair, his shoulders wedged between two file cabinets. Big, brawny, beautifulâall those words came to mind. His hands were fisted inside the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket. And the look on his face made his feelings clear. He didnât like her.
That set her back on her heels. When the surprise settled, she nodded in his direction. âSorry I interrupted. I thought Sandy was alone.â Then she recognized him. He was the guy whoâd been driving the flashy Porsche downstairs. Remembering his sarcasm, she frowned, not much liking him, either. âI donât believe weâve met.â
He let his gaze slide down her length and linger on her chest before returning to her face. âIâm a friend of Sandyâs,â he said, in a tone that told her he wasnât impressed with what he saw. âA private investigator.â
âI see.â She flushed heatedly. Whether because of the intimacy in that look, or in anger because heâd so brazenly perused her, she wasnât sure. Probably a bit of both. If theyâd been alone, sheâd have found out. But they werenât. Sandy was watchingâavidly. She forced herself to be civil and extended her hand. âIâm Caron Chalmers.â
He seemed reluctant, but clasped it. His hand swallowed hers; it was as huge as the rest of him.
âYes, I know.â His grasp was firm, strong, and he didnât flinch, slump or look away. âParker Simms.â
The man was gorgeous, one any woman could appreciate, but the emotions seeping from him were alien to her. No one ever had looked at her with such raw animosity. Butwhy? A parking slot didnât warrant this kind of emotion, not even for a guy driving a Porsche.
They hadnât met before; she was certain of that. A woman wouldnât forget meeting a man who looked like himâand sheâd never forget being looked at in the way he was looking at her. Feeling crowded, uncomfortable, she stepped back.
Sandy cleared his throat. âI thought Parker should be involved in this.â
She darted a look at Sandy. He refused to meet her gaze. Her insides started rumbling, but she forced herself to calm down. âYou told him about me.â She tried not to let it, but resentment and accusation edged into her voice.
âI had to, Caron.â Sandyâs eyes held an apology. âFor both our sakes.â
Her purse strap slipped off her shoulder. She shoved it back. Why did every man in her life have to betray her? Was there an invisible bullâs-eye drawn between her shoulder blades, a sign that read âMen, Stab Here?â
âIâm worried,â Sandy said with a lift of his hand.
He was worried; she could see it in his expression. But she wasnât sure whether or not his concern appeased her. Her phoning earlier had cued Sandy that sheâd imaged a victim. His calling in his detective friend could mean he doubted that there was a case. It could also mean that he thought she needed a keeper. And a keeper she would not tolerate. âI work alone.â
âSo do I.â Parkerâs voice was as cold as his chilly look.
She didnât know what to make of his remark. âIf you feel that way, then why are you here?â
Before he could reply, the phone rang. Sandy didnât answer it. His faded blue eyes flickered an uncertainty that the smile heâd carved around the cigar couldnât hide. âI asked Parker to come. I thought he could listen in and maybe help.â
Sandy was still ducking his phone callsâand he was darned nervous, busying himself ruffling through an inch-thick stack of pink phone messages on his desk. Heâd known that she wouldnât like Parker Simms being here, and he hadnât been at all sure how civil sheâd be about it. Somehow that doubt made his having violated her trust easier to take. Still, she was feeling darned bitter.
Explaining her gift in the past had netted two effects. One was her being used; the other, her being ridiculed. She didnât care for an encore to either experience.
Working alone was easiest, best. Yet after what happened to Sarah, could Caron afford to turn down reliable help?
Emotionally torn, she nodded toward the mystery man.
Parker Simms nodded back, but his expression didnât soften. What was with him? Her having interrupted his meeting with Sandy couldnât raise this much hostility any more than the parking slot could, especially considering Sandy had brought Simms here to hear what she had to say. So what had she done to irk him?
She focused, trying to pick up on his emotions. Though they were strong and turbulent, she couldnât peg themâor the source of his animosity.
That surprised her. She cocked her head. But then, she wasnât able to read everyone. With Sandy, the minute he looked into her eyes, it was as if some magic shield slid into place and hid his thoughts. She didnât probe. Itâd taken years of working with him, but sheâd come to trust him. With Parker Simms, it was more complex than that, though she couldnât say exactly how or why…not yet.
Sandy stuffed the cigar into an overflowing ashtray he kept on his desk for appearances, then stood, curled a beefy arm around her shoulder, and squeezed reassuringly. âDr. Zilinger didnât tell me you were back in town.â
âI havenât called her yet.â Caron hugged him back, feeling self-conscious. Parker Simms had the most intense gaze sheâd ever seen. And the most sinfully gorgeous gray eyes. Long, thick lashes and black-winged brows.
âAh, then I was wrong.â Looking relieved, Sandy sat down again, retrieved the cigar and lazily sprawled back. The chair springs creaked. âThis is a social call.â
She wished Simms werenât here, wished she could talk freely to Sandy and openly explain the situation. Outsiders just didnât understand. For the most part, she supposed, her gift frightened themâthough she had a hard time imagining Parker Simms being afraid of anything. The man seemed more likely to incite fear than to suffer from it.
âI wish this was a social call, Sandy. Until three days ago, it would have been.â She let him see the truth in her eyes. âBut not anymore.â
âWhat happened?â He rocked forward, picked up a pen and held it poised over his blotter.
She looked at the scrawls in the margin, unable to watch him during the telling, or at Simms during the objecting. âCan we speak privately?â
Simms didnât move. She hadnât figured he would.
Sandy rubbed his jaw. âParkerâs here for a purpose, Caron. I havenât forgotten what happened last time. He can help…if youâll let him.â
He couldnât help. For some reason, the man strongly disapproved of her, and he made no bones about letting her know it. His body language was as expressive as a chalked blackboard. âI work alone,â she reminded Sandy.
âIâm staying, Ms. Chalmers.â Parker glanced at his watch. âAccept it, and letâs get on with this.â
âEase up, Parker.â Sandy frowned, then motioned to a chair and softened his voice. âCome on, Caron. Talk to me.â
Caron stayed where she was. She hadnât asked for Parker Simmsâs help. His hostility, whatever the reason for it, wasnât her problem, and she slid him a hard glare to let him know it.
He didnât so much as blink. Disappointed, she focused on Sandy. âThree days ago, the sensations started coming back.â
âSensations?â This from Simms, complete with a frown in his voice.
âThe feeling of being on the brink,â she explained. âOf something big about to happen.â
âWhat?â Curiosity replaced the frown.
âI didnât know, I just had the feeling.â She forced herself to be patient, looked up at him, and immediately wished she hadnât. His grimace could stunt growth.
âBut you found out,â Sandy said.
She nodded, then leaned back against the wall, lifted her chin and stared at a water spot on the ceiling. âThat afternoon. I was checking out at the grocery store. I handed the cashier a fistful of coupons. âCustomers and their damn coupons,â she said.â
âI donât get it.â Sandy shrugged. âThatâs rude, but not odd.â
Caron slumped, dreading Parkerâs reaction to this. She deliberately refused to look at him so that she wouldnât see it. âThe woman hadnât said a word.â
Understanding dawned in Sandyâs eyes. âAre you sure?â
âIâm sure.â Caron rubbed her temple. âShe was cracking her gum, and I was looking at her lips. They hadnât moved.â
âYou heard her thoughts,â he said softly, sliding the cigar into the ashtray.
Hearing Parkerâs sigh, she winced inwardly. âYes,â she answered Sandy, knowing they both knew exactly what her hearing the womanâs thoughts meant. Caronâs time without imaging, her time of freedom and peace, was over.
The âgiftâ was back.
âWhat did you do?â His voice had an odd catch in it.
She let out a self-deprecating laugh. âFlatly denied that it was happening again. Refused to accept it.â Sheâd cried all the way home, too, mourning the loss of her normal life in Midtown, and her students, who deserved a teacher who wasnât distracted by visions. She didnât want the gift. Sheâd been blessed enough.
Sandy leaned forward. âCould you?â
âWhat?â
âRefuse to accept the images?â Parker said, interrupting them. Muttering his impatience, he propped his elbows on his knees.
âI tried.â She had. But by the time sheâd stored the chicken noodle soup on the pantry shelf, sheâd known she had to help. That was when sheâd first âseenâ the little girl…and when all hell had broken loose inside her.
Sandy frowned, clearly perplexed. âSo you can refuse them, then?â
He was hoping for a way out…for her. But, though she appreciated his concern, there wasnât one. Not one she could live with, anyway. âNo, Sandy. I canât refuse them.â
âThat would be too convenient.â Parkerâs voice held a condescending smirk she thoroughly resented.
Sandy rubbed his jaw, then his nape, studying her for a long minute. He put down the pen and laced his hands across his desk. âIâm going to be blunt here, Caron.â
âOkay.â Hadnât he always been?
âCan you handle this?â
Though it stung, it was a fair question. One she had been asking herself since her first inkling that the images were returning. Sheâd agonized, rationalized, but no matter what path her thoughts had taken, all roads led back to one. âI donât have any choice.â
âOf course you donât.â Parker grunted, making it clear that heâd meant the exact opposite of what heâd said.
That was the one. The proverbial back-breaking straw. Who did this guy think he was? She frowned at him and held it so that he wouldnât miss it. âIâm sorry you donât approve, Mr. Simms. But I havenât asked for your approval, or for your help, so could you can the sarcasm?â She slid her gaze to Sandy. âThis is hard enough without a strangerâs censure.â
Simms lifted his brows, but said nothing.
His hostility had her angry and nervous inside. She needed a minute to get herself glued back together. She pushed away from the wall and peeked out between the dusty Venetian blinds. âCan you believe this rain? It should be snow.â
âYou know New Orleans doesnât get much snow,â Sandy said, ânot even this close to Christmas. And you donât seem fine. Maybe you ought to give Dr. Z. a call.â
âLater.â Hearing the steady rap of his pen against his blotter, she turned back toward Sandy. âWhen thereâs time.â
His faded eyes lit with compassion. As if knowing she wouldnât welcome it, he shifted his gaze. âLook, I know that last case was hard on you,â he said, avoiding speaking Sarahâs name. âFinding her likeâlike that. Well, I know it was rough.â
Caron stiffened and tried hard not to recoil. Parker, too, had tensed. Just the indirect mention of Sarah had Caron remembering what had happenedâand reliving it.
Images flooded Caronâs mind. Images of Sarahâs battered body, unnaturally twisted, lifeless and cold. Images of flames sweeping up the walls, engulfing the building where Sarah had suffered and died. And images of the empathy pains, so staggeringly severe that she nearly had died with Sarah.
Her stomach folded over on itself, and Caron shuttered her thoughts. Still, her hands shook, and her knees were weaker than her aunt Graceâs tea.
Afraid sheâd fall if she didnât sit, Caron plopped down in an old chair wedged between Sandyâs desk and the wall.
Parker looked at her from around the corner of the file cabinet. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing,â Caron assured him. âIâm fine.â
He lifted a brow and spoke to Sandy. âShe looks a little green around the gills.â
If sheâd had the strength, she wouldâve slapped him. The man didnât have a compassionate bone in his body.
Sandy held his silence and rocked back, rubbing his chin. The split leather cushion swooshed under his weight and creaked when he rolled closer to his desk to reach for his glasses. He draped them over the bridge of his nose and propped his elbows on his desk pad. âWhat do we have this time?â
This time.
Would there be more times? Or was this one a fluke? Swallowing hard, Caron dropped her shoulder bag onto the floor. Again she wished that Parker Simms were anywhere in the world except Sandyâs office. After this, the man would add âflakyâ to his list of her sins.
Resentment churning her stomach, she looked at Sandy and began disclosing the facts. âA nine-year-old girl. Brown hair. Green eyes. Frail.â
âCaron?â Sandy stiffened, his voice tinged with reluctance.
He was afraid for her. Afraid she couldnât handle the pressure or the empathy pains. So was she. But she had to take whatever cameâfor the little girl. Caron schooled her voice, but it still sounded still faint. âHer hands are…bound.â
âOh, God.â
Caron looked up and met Sandyâs gaze. It was all there for her to see. Fear for her. Raw terror for another victimâa younger Sarah.
âDo you have any proof?â An angry white line circled Parkerâs lips.
âLet her tell the story, Simms.â Sandyâs tone carried a warning, one Simms would be wise to heed.
The men locked gazes.
Parker didnât back down.
Sandy blinked rapidly three times, then turned his chair toward the computer on the stand beside his desk and positioned his fingers on the keys.
She heard him swallow. âBound with what?â
His tone told her that Sandy, the man, had buried his emotions. Sandy, the cop, had stepped in. Caron took comfort in that. âRope.â She squeezed her fingers around the cold metal arms of the chair. âA greasy rope.â Her wrists twinged. She looked down, half expecting to see black grease marks. But, of course, there were none.
Sandy began to type. âPaint me a picture.â
It was as hard as the telling itself, but Caron forced herself to look Parker Simms right in the eye. It was obvious that he didnât believe her. But that was his problem, not hers. âSheâs huddled in the corner of an old wooden shedâ the woodâs slick, weathered. Sunlightâs slanting in, between the slats. Inside itâs maybe eight by tenâno larger.â
âWhatâs inside?â Sandyâs voice was hoarse.
Caron couldnât concentrate. Parkerâs gaze had gone black. It was disturbing, seemingly reaching into her soul.
She closed her eyes and blocked him out. The images grew sharp. A spider crawled up the far wall, then onto a shovel caked with dry mud that hung there from a shiny nail. âLawn tools,â she said. âRusty cans of paint and insecticide are on a shelf above the little girl. Thereâs a big bag ofââ the writing was faded, and Caron strained to make out the letters ââBlood Meal.â That was it. âItâs on the floor, propped against the far wall. Thatâs where sheâs huddling.â
The steady clicking of the keys stopped. Sandy gulped down a swig of coffee. âWhatâs she wearing?â
From his grimace, the coffee was cold. âBlue jeans,â Caron said. âThe color of Mr. Simmsâs. Theyâre ripped over her left knee.â She paused and felt her own knee through her white linen slacks. No pain. No burning from a scrape. The frayed fabric was worn, not ripped. The girlâs knee was fine. âAnd a yellow T-shirt.â
âAnything written on the shirt?â
âThereâs an emblem, but I canât see it. Her hands are curled to her chest.â Cold? No, she wasnât cold. Caron scanned the image, then closed her eyes to heighten her perception. âBlack sneakersâmuddy. And yellow socks.â
He keyed the last of what Caron told him into the computer. âWhat about height, weight, distinguishing marks?â
âSheâs sitting down and curled, but about four feet, and maybe sixty-five pounds. Sheâs fragile-looking, small-boned.â Caron pushed herself to sense the girlâs emotions, her physical condition, opening her mind to the images. Her stomach churned. Pain flooded it. Fevered and flushed, she felt dizzy. The smell of mud and chemicals grew stronger and stronger, until she couldnât breathe. She snapped her eyes open and gasped.
Sandy jumped up and touched her shoulder. âHey, take it easy, Caron.â
âIâm okay.â She took in great gulps of cleansing air. The expression on Sandyâs face warned her that the second she left his office heâd be calling Dr. Z. to express his concern that Caron was still suffering from trauma-induced psychic burnout. âSheâs sick, Sandy. Very sick.â
âWas she beaten, bruisedâanything else?â Parker asked.
How could Simms sound so calm and unaffected? Again Caron sensed his disbelief, his hostility toward her. âNo.â Her head was clearing. âJust sick.â
She dabbed sweat from her forehead. âI donât know about the man.â
âWhat man? Now thereâs a man?â Parker grunted. âWhat next? Flying saucers?â
âDamn it, Simms, knock it off.â Sandy looked back at Caron and gentled his voice. âTell me about the man.â
She closed her eyes and again saw his face, his piercing eyes. They were green, and as ice-cold as Parker Simmsâs.
She blinked and focused on Sandy. Her voice rattled. âI imaged him on the way over here. He might not even be connected. Iâm not sure yet.â
Then it hit her. The little girl had dimples. So did the man. âNo, theyâre connected. Heâs her…father.â That didnât feel quite right. Not at all sure she was interpreting properly, she hedged. âMaybe. There is a connection.â
Sandy moved back and watched the computer screen. âWeâre coming up empty. Ready to look at some pictures?â
Caron nodded and picked up her purse. From under her lashes, she stole a glance at Parker. Heâd pulled his chair away from the wall. And, sitting sprawled with his elbow propped on the armrest and his chin cupped in his hand, he looked bored and irritated. He hadnât bought a word sheâd said.
Caron sighed inwardly. Sheâd met his kind beforeâone too many times. âNo photos of runaways,â she told Sandy. âThe girlâs not a runaway. She was abducted.â She could feel herself breaking out in a cold sweat.
Abducted. Just like Sarah James.
Tapping his pen, Sandy abruptly stopped. âAny idea of where from?â
Caron knew exactly. âA store on the west bank. The corner of Belle Chase Highway and Twenty-first Street. Thereâs a shopping center there, a reddish brick building. She was behind it on her bicycle. Itâs lavender.â
âTheyâre coming fast, arenât they?â
She nodded, resigned. The images were coming very fast. And Simmsâs expression had turned to stone.
Sandy added the latest info to the rest in the computer. âDo you have a name?â
She paused, waited, but nothing came. It hadnât with Sarah, either, not until later. âNo.â
âWeâre still dry here.â He nodded toward the monitor.
âNothing?â Caron frowned. âThe child was abducted. How could there be nothing in the data bank? Her parentsâsomebodyâhad to notice her missing.â
âThereâs nothing here.â He raked his hair with a burn-scarred handâanother legacy of the James case.
âMaybe she wasnât abducted.â Parker let his hand drop to the armrest. âMaybe none of this is real. Maybe youâreââ
âI wish the images werenât real. You have no idea how often Iâve wished it.â Caron leveled him her best hostile look. How could any man so gorgeous be such a narrow-minded thorn in the side? âBut they are.â
Compassion flitted over his face. He clamped his jaw and squelched it. âAt the risk of sounding sarcastic, let me ask my trivial question again. Do you have any proof?â
She flushed heatedly again. For a second sheâd thought he might come around, but he hadnât. He was no different from the others. She lifted her chin. âNothing you can touch, see, smell or feel, Mr. Simms. Only the images.â
Parker looked at Sandy. âAnd thereâs no missing-person report?â
Grim-faced, Sandy shook his head. An uneasy shiver rattled along Caronâs spine. Before now, there always had been a report. That there wasnât one now had her feeling grim, too. Grim and uncertain.
Parker stood up. âAs far as Iâm concerned, that covers it.â
Caron tried hard to keep her temper in check. Not only was the man insulting and rudeâhe might as well have called her a liar straight outâhis negative feelings were unjustified. That infuriated her. âLook, Mr. Simmsââ
âNo, you look, Miss Chalmers,â he cut in, his voice cold and steady. âItâs a simple matter of logic. If your child were missing, would you file a report?â
âYes, I would, butââ
âWell, there you have it. Right from the psychicâs mouth.â He leaned against a file cabinet and cast her an acid look that she would have thoroughly enjoyed knocking off his face. âNo report, no abduction. And no case.â With an annoying little shrug, he straightened. âNow, if youâll excuse me, I have real work to do.â Refusing them so much as a nod, he walked out of Sandyâs office.
Caron glared at his retreating back. âYouâre wrong, Parker Simms. Dead wrong!â
He didnât stop, or turn around.
âParker has a point, Caron.â Sandy said on a sigh. âAre you sure about this?â
After all their years together, Sandy doubted her. That hurt. âYes, Iâm sure,â she snapped. âDo you think I want to see this child dragged through hell? Do you think Iâm looking forward to being dragged through hell with her?â
âI didnât mean to offend you. Itâs just that…â His face tinged pink. âYou and I both know you had a really close call withâwith the James case.â A desperate edge crept into his voice. âYou nearly died, Caron.â
He looked down at his desk pad, his eyes unfocused. âItâs been a year today.â
A year ago today, theyâd found Sarah James. Dead. A surge of bitter tears threatened. âI know.â How could she not know? Sheâd never forget. Sarahâs killer being in prison didnât help at all.
âCould you be getting your wires crossed because of it?â
His question was valid. Caron had nearly died. During the week-long investigation, sheâd followed up on the leads sheâd imaged, and her health had deteriorated quickly. The more deeply engrossed in the case sheâd become, the more acutely sheâd suffered every atrocity that Sarah James had suffered at the hands of her captor. And Sarah James had been tortured.
Following the grain in her padded chair with her fingers, Caron looked at Sandy, knowing her regret was shining in her eyes. âThis isnât confusion. I wish it was. I wish the child wasnât in danger. But she is, Sandy. I swear, she is.â
He pinched the bridge of his nose above his half-moon glasses. A smudge on the lens caught in the light.
When it became clear he wasnât going to respond, Caron turned the subject. âWhy did you bring in Parker Simms?â
Sandy looked away. âI told you. I think he can help.â
âHelp?â She guffawed. âHeâs the most hostile man Iâve ever met.â
Indecision creased Sandyâs brow, and he stuffed his hand in his pocket. âHeâs got his reasons. I agree that these days Parkerâs in a black mood most of the time, and heâs really rough around the edges. But heâs the best at what he does.â
Sandy knew more than he was saying, and her expression must have told him that she knew it. He gave her an uneasy smile. âCome on, you can handle Simms. Just donât take it personally. When the man dies, heâll probably ask God for his ID.â
âAnd Godâll give it to him,â she said with a hint of a grin. There was no sense in alienating Sandy. Sheâd get Parker Simmsâs measure…eventually.
âHe probably will.â Sandy gave her shoulder a firm pat. âLetâs look at those pictures, hmm? Maybe weâll get lucky.â
Nodding, Caron went into the outer office and got busy.
Parker sat in the Porsche outside Sandersâs office and stared up at the rain-speckled window. She was still in there, filling Sandersâs head with bull.
His hand shook on the wheel. God, if heâd blown thisâŠNo, he hadnât blown it. Heâd been rough on herânot that she didnât deserve worseâbut she had no idea who he was, that heâd been tailing her, or that heâd gathered a yearâs worth of proof that his ex-partner, Harlan, had been right. Caron Chalmers was no more psychic than he was.
For prosecution purposes, it was circumstantial evidence, true. But it was strong enough to convince Parker. A year of teaching second-graders sixty miles away in Midtown, and the lady couldnât hack playing it straight. So sheâd come back and picked up where sheâd left off with Sanders.
Parker had figured that it would take an out-and-out threat to get any information on her from Sanders. All heâd managed for the past year was Sandersâs admission that he and Chalmers were friends. But things had taken an odd turn.
This morning, Sanders had called and seemed almost relieved to spill his guts and tell Parker she was coming down to headquarters. And then Sanders had done something even odder. Heâd asked him to help Chalmers.
That request had knocked Parker for a loop. Sanders was genuinely worried about her; there was no doubt about that. Parker had seen Sandersâs look in his own motherâs eyes too often not to recognize it. And that worry made Sanders Chalmersâs victim, too. Not the same kind of victim Harlan had been, but still her victim.
Parkerâs stomach lurched, and the lump in his chest turned stone-cold. He grimaced, doubly resolved. Harlan was right. Caron Chalmers was a fraud. And, by God, Parker meant to stop herâbefore she caused anyone elseâs death.
After an hour of staring at photos and coming up as empty as the computerâs data bank, Caron stood up at the long table and stretched, then looked back over her shoulder. Through the half-open glass door, she saw that Sandy was alone, but talking quietly into the telephone.
From the intimate tone of his voice, she knew the call was personal. Caron lifted a brow. It was hard to imagine Sandy loving, or as a lover. What kind of woman would be attracted to him?
Sandy hung up. Caron tossed her foam coffee cup into the overflowing trash can and tapped on his door. When he looked up, she leaned her head against the doorframe. âYou guys should use paper cups or real mugs.â
He glanced up from an open file. âWhat?â
His eyes looked a little glazed. Must have been one hot call. Parker Simms and his broad shoulders flashed through her mind. She blinked the disturbing image away. âFoam doesnât break down. You know, go green and save the planet.â
âOh. Right.â Sandy set the file down and, elbow bent, propped his chin with his hand. âIâll mention it.â
He wouldnât. Typical Sandy. âThereâs nothing in the photos. Iâm going to ride over to Gretna and see what happens.â
âBe careful.â
Caron nodded. âIâll give you a call.â
âYou want company? I guess Simms skated out on us, but I could tag along.â
Sandy was worried about her, but that wasnât all of it. She couldnât blame him. After Sarahâs case, how could he not be worried? Caron herself was worriedâand tempted to take him up on his offer.
Before she could give in to the fear, she replied. âNo, but thanks. I have to get my feet back.â
She hiked up her shoulder bag to hide her own misgivings. How well would she cope this time? Okay, so she was scared stiff. She had honest concerns about her abilities, and about the empathy pains that always accompanied the images. How much could she physically withstand? She hadnât been tested since the images had come back, either. How accurate were her perceptions?
As much as she hated to admit it, hostile or not, Parker Simms had made a valid point. For the first time ever in a case, she didnât have a missing-persons report, or any other hard evidence. But she did have the images. After what had happened to Sarah, trusting them was as hard as trusting outsiders. Yet the stakes were too high for her not to; more than for herself, she was terrified of what was happening to the little girl. Of what could happen to herâif she found her too late.
She squeezed the strap on her purse until it bit into her palm, and pushed away from the door casing. The white paint was chipped and peeling away in splinters. So was she…inside.
She didnât want to, but she had to warn Sandy. Not that there was anything he could do about it without a report. But maybe it was herself she had to warnâout loudâjust in case this little girl ended up like Sarah. âSheâs sick, Sandy. She could get sicker.â
âI understand.â
Their gazes linked and held. He did understand. They both did. And whether or not Parker Simms believed her, Caron knew the truth. The little girl had been abducted. She was in serious danger. And unless Caron interpreted her images dead-center accurate, the girl could die.
Readers Group Guide
1. Caron made a mistake and because she had, now others are skeptical of her. Even those she worked with successfully for a long time. Have you faced a situation like that? Where one error undermined your overall credibility? How did you cope with it?
2. Caron is forced to work with Parker knowing that he intends to prove she isnât being honest. Has this happened to you? Where someone falsely accused you of something or misunderstood the circumstances and believed the worst? Were you able to correct the situation? How?
3. Have there been instances in your life where you were extremely attuned, or intuitive to something happening to someone else?
4. After a tragedy, Caron mentally shut down. Why do you think that during this shutdown period, she began suffering empathy pains again?
5. How would you cope with imagining victims? Could you do so constructively?
6. What did you gain from experiencing Caronâs challenges?
Awards and Honors:
Five Star Gold, Heartland Critiques
Finalist, The Maggie Award of Excellence (Published)
Finalist, The Maggie Award of Excellence (Unpublished)
Southwest Writers Award Finalist
Reviews and Endorsements:
âThis is not a book to be begun at midnight. As tightly controlled a mystery/thriller as Iâve read in a long time. Not to be missed.â
â Heartland Critiques
âI loved this thrilling, suspenseful, and emotionally moving storyâfrom the first page, I was hooked!â
â Rendezvous
âA powerful new author. A strong, emotional story of real people. Will worm their way into your heart and stay there.â
â The Talisman
âA tense, action-filled story of suspense that will keep you turning the pages.â
â Affaire de Coeur
âVictoria Cole [Hinze/Barrett] writes with a fresh ingenuity and intensity that will make readers eagerly anticipate future works.â
â Romantic Times
âA story that turns your blood hotâand coldâby turns.  Plenty of chills, plenty of thrills.â
â Nora Powers, author
Reader Reviews:
âAs a professional psychic, I have always been drawn to books that are stories about intuitives, or psychics. Many times I am disappointed because of the writerâs inaccurate portrayal of their gifted characters. Vicki does NOT disappoint. As a psychic who has many times worked with law enforcement to locate missing people and help with murder investigations, I have been where Caron was and dealt with the doubt of law enforcement to the point of questioning my own sanity. I wonder, Vicki, surely you must be one of us? I was captured from the first page of Caronâs story. Her emotional struggles with the visions she saw and what she felt as she searched for the missing child. I was right there with her feeling what she felt, seeing what she saw. Realistic in her scenes Vicki has done all of us true psychics proud with her talent. BRAVO!! Thank you Vicki for one of the best reads I have had in a very long time and for your honest portrayal of those of us who canât hide from our abilities and choose to do what we can with them. ââseerjean127, amazon
âYou really need to try this book â It keeps you on the edge of you seat â power packed and fast moving and DANGEROUS as Parker almost loses Caron. Such involvement and romance makes for an excellent book â WOW!   HIGHLY RECOMMENDEDâ âM. Hartmann, Amazon
âPlenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing in this fast moving story.â âMark Louis Baumgart, Amazon