“Voices you don’t attribute to God or a demon. Voices that don’t command you to kill.”

“Not even on the worst day yet, I’m happy to say. So far, so good.” She shook her head slightly. “But returning to the point-a psychic killer is possible.”

“Would you know? I mean, could you tell if that were the case?”

“Not necessarily. Psychics can often recognize each other as psychic, but not always.”

“Shields,” he said, remembering what Hollis had told him. “Yet another instance of the mind protecting itself.”

“Hollis said she mentioned that.” Isabel didn’t seem disturbed by it. “And it is one reason we don’t always recognize each other. Also, nonpsychic people frequently develop shields of their own, for privacy or protection, especially in small towns where everybody tends to know everybody else’s business. It’s a lot more common than you might think. Hell, I could talk to the killer every day, never knowing he’s the murderer and never picking up psychic ability-or psychotic voices in his head.”

For the first time since he’d returned, she sounded tired, and it made him say, “How close are Mallory and Hollis to finishing up?” He was about to suggest calling one of them, but Isabel automatically used a more direct line of communication.

“They are…” She frowned, concentrating. “… at the last property on the list, I think. What used to be a gas-” Her face changed, tightened.

Watching her, Rafe was conscious of the same uneasiness he’d felt in Jamie’s “playhouse.” She was somewhere else, somewhere distant from here. He wanted to reach over and touch her, anchor her here somehow.

She came abruptly to her feet. “Oh, Christ.”

“You know, for a gas station, this is a huge building.” Mallory’s voice echoed.

They were in the rear area, which was divided into at least three separate rooms, all apparently cavernous; the one they were presently exploring had a concrete floor and high windows so dirty they admitted almost no light. Rusted pieces and parts from old cars still hung on hooks and racks on the cinder-block walls, and piles of junk lay everywhere.

Every time Mallory moved the beam of her flashlight, it seemed to catch something metallic and glare back at her, like something springing out of the shadows.

Unsettling.

“Tell me about it. I’m guessing it didn’t start out life as a gas station.” Hollis pointed her flashlight into a dark corner and jumped when an unexpectedly shiny chrome bumper glinted brightly. “Jesus.”

Mallory jumped in the same instant, but in her case it was because something skittered across her foot. “Shit. I hate rats, but I hope that’s what just ran across my foot.”

Hollis didn’t care for rats herself, but she was standing before what looked like a solid steel door that held her interest at the moment. The door was padlocked. “Never mind the rats. Take a look at this.”

Mallory joined her. “I can’t never mind rats. I hate rats. And I’m going to throw these shoes away. Yuck.” Her flashlight beam joined Hollis’s. “Is that a new lock?”

“I’d say so. Hold on a minute.” She juggled her flashlight briefly before tucking it under her arm as she dug into the waist pack she was wearing. She put on a pair of latex gloves, then produced a small, zippered leather case.

Mallory watched with interest. “Burglar’s tools? You didn’t bring those out at Jamie’s playhouse.”

“I didn’t have to, you had the locksmith’s tools.” Hollis smiled suddenly. “I’ve been hoping there’d be an opportunity for me to try out my lock-picking skills. They haven’t been field-tested yet.” She selected a couple of tools and bent to begin working on the lock.

“You learned this at Quantico?”

“From Bishop. It’s sort of fascinating which skills he determines to be most important to a new agent. Handling a gun without shooting myself in the foot and with reasonable accuracy-check. Being able to use a form of autohypnosis and biofeedback to focus and concentrate-check. Ability to talk to the dead-a major plus. Being able to pick various and sundry locks-check. Or, at least, so I hope.”

Mallory laughed under her breath. “You know, I’d really like to meet this Bishop of yours. He sounds like a very interesting man.”

“He certainly is. Damn. Shine your light right here, will you?”

Mallory complied.

“Wait-I think-” There was a soft click, and Hollis opened the padlock with a flourish. “Ta-da. What do you know, I can do this. I wasn’t at all sure I could.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She put away the tools, then had to put her shoulder against the door to push it inward. And the moment it was open a few inches Hollis immediately stepped back. “Oh, shit.”

The two women looked at each other, and Mallory said, “I haven’t had the misfortune to stumble across a decomposing human corpse, but I’m guessing that’s what one would smell like. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

Breathing through her mouth, Hollis said, “I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. Part of the training I got was a visit to the body farm-where students and forensics specialists study decomposition. It’s not an odor you easily forget.”

Mallory stared at the partially open door. “I’m not looking forward to seeing what’s inside there.”

“No, me either.” Hollis eyed her. “Want to wait and call in reinforcements?”

“No. No, dammit. With a padlocked door and that smell, there’s obviously nothing dangerous in there. Nothing alive, I mean. We have to open the door and look, make sure it’s not some dead animal in there. Then call it in.”

Hollis braced herself mentally and emotionally-and did her best to shore up her psychic shields. Then she and Mallory shouldered the door all the way open and stepped inside.

“Jesus,” Mallory whispered.

Hollis might have echoed her, if she could have forced words past the sick lump in her throat.

It was a bare room, for the most part, with only a few shelves along one wall to show it had been used at least once for storage. The high windows admitted just enough illumination, from the southwestern corner of the building and the hot sun low enough in the sky, to provide mote-filled beams of light focused on the center of the room.

On her.

One end of a thick, rusted chain was wrapped around a steel I-beam overhead, while at the other end of the chain a big hook jutted from between her rope-bound wrists. She dangled, literally, from the hook, her feet several inches above the floor. There was nothing beneath her except rusty stains on the concrete.

Thick, dark hair hung down to mostly obscure her face. The clothing she had worn, a once-demure blouse and skirt, had been shredded, but very neatly, methodically, almost artistically. The material provided a fringe that almost hid what had been done to her body.

Almost.

“Jamie didn’t do this,” Mallory whispered. “She couldn’t have done this.”

“Nothing human could have done this,” Hollis responded, her own voice thin. “It’s like he was curious to see what color her insides were.”

Mallory backed out of the room, gagging, and Hollis didn’t have to follow to know the other cop was throwing up everything she’d eaten today.

Her own stomach churning, Hollis reached for her cell phone, her gaze fixed on the dangling and decomposing body of a woman who’d been gutted like a fish.

6:00 PM

The medical examiner for the county, Dr. David James, was a normally dour man, and a scene like this one didn’t make him any more cheerful.

“She’s been dead at least a couple of months,” he told Rafe. “The fairly cool, dry conditions in here probably slowed decomp a bit, but not much. I can’t be positive, of course, but from the bruising on her neck I’m guessing strangulation, probably with a rope of some kind. Whoever cut her did it postmortem, probably days afterward; there was almost no bleeding from those wounds.”