CHAPTER ONE

There would be nightmares again tonight.

She'd always had a knack for finding misplaced keys, glasses, and pets. She was fine with that. But her new psychic ability for tracking down the bodies of those who had died by violence was not only depressing but frequently led to anxiety attacks and disturbing dreams.

Why couldn't it have been a talent for something more positive-like, say, picking winning lottery numbers? Why did it have to be dead bodies?

Talia March clenched the dead man's gold cuff link in one hand, gathered her nerve, and flattened her other hand against the metal side of the industrial-sized trash bin. She was braced mentally and physically, her core Pilates-tight; nevertheless, the jolt of psychic lightning rattled her nerves and her senses. In the past few months she had learned that the energy laid down by violence always came as a shock.

She had finally figured out that what she detected with her new ability was the psychic stain of the killer's emotions-or lack thereof-and the pain and fear of the victim. It made for a toxic brew that seeped into the crime scene and, to her, was as obvious as a pool of blood.

She was aware of a weak frisson emanating from the cuff link. The owner was dead but the item that he had worn frequently in life was still infused with the hollow echo of his vibe.

She could work with almost any object that had belonged to the missing or the deceased, but over the course of the past several months she had learned that some materials absorbed and reflected paranormal energy more efficiently than others. Gold was a particularly strong conductor, almost as good as crystal.

"Shit," she whispered. She took a quick step back. "He's in there."

Roger Gossard, the head of Gossard Consulting, a crime scene consulting company, studied the trash bin with a pained expression. "Are you sure?"

"You hired me for my best guess," she said. "This is it."

Roger grunted but he did not argue or demand more details. He knew better than to ask her to explain her conclusion. He looked at the unhappy man wearing a security guard uniform emblazoned with the logo of the company that controlled the loading dock.

"Okay if we take a look?" Roger said. "We need to find out for sure if there's a body inside before we call the police."

The security guard shrugged. "Boss says I'm supposed to cooperate but I'm telling you right now I'm not going into that bin to look for a dead body. You're on your own."

"Right." Roger switched his attention to the two members of his team who were waiting for instructions. "Bailey and Thomas, take a look. We need to make sure."

Grim but resigned, the pair pulled on heavy gloves, climbed into the bin, and went to work sorting through the trash generated by the several hundred office workers employed in the building.

Talia retreated to the front of the loading dock and contemplated the view of the alley. The rain was coming down in the steady way that was typical of Seattle in the late fall. The heavy skies indicated the weather was not going to change anytime soon. The Big Gray was just getting started.

In the past she had been comfortable with the drama of the city's dark season. But the night she had lost to amnesia had changed a lot of things. Now she was aware of a relentless sense of urgency simmering just beneath the surface, a sensation that was intensified by the late dawns and early twilights.

She tuned out the noise of the trash bin excavation process and opened her phone. There was no new text from her mysterious informant. She was starting to lose hope. Maybe she had been conned. It was a discouraging thought because the lead had appeared so promising.

"Looks like we found Clayton, boss," Bailey called. "Wrapped in plastic sheeting. Not a pretty sight."

The security guard backed away from the trash bin as if it was radioactive.

"That's far enough," Roger said. "Don't touch anything else. I'll call Seaton and let him know. He'll be thrilled. It's no longer a missing persons case. He's got a genuine homicide on his hands."

"No question about that," Thomas muttered. "Looks like someone used a hammer on him."

Roger took out his phone and made the call. When he was finished he walked toward Talia, watching her as if she was a member of the Addams family. This wasn't the first case she had worked on for him and she knew what was coming next. He no longer needed her. She was now a problem. He wanted her gone before the police detective arrived.

Roger was good-looking, smart, well-dressed, and ambitious. Everything about him, from his expensive business suit to his salon-styled hair, projected the image of a man on the fast track to success. He made no secret of his goal. He was headed for the top of the psychological forensics field, building a reputation as a consultant who brought state-of-the-art technology and the latest scientific theories to the business of crime solving. The very last thing he wanted was for his clients to find out that he occasionally employed a psychic.

He stopped in front of her. "You were right," he said quietly. "Ray Clayton did not walk out on his wife and disappear. She murdered him with the help of her lover."

"You'll have to prove that last part."

"It's not my problem. It's up to Seaton to close the case. But now that we found the body for him that shouldn't be too difficult. There will be a lot of evidence."

"There always is on the body."

Roger lowered his voice a little more. "You can go now."

She gave him an icy smile. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hang around until the cops get here. We all know Seaton would have a few questions if he saw me. It wouldn't do for Gossard Consulting to admit that they brought in a psychic to find the missing body. Bad for the brand."

Roger winced and glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "Keep your voice down. I told you, Bailey and Thomas think you're a forensic psychologist who figured out the most likely dump site after studying my profile of the wife."

"I won't blow your cover. A job is a job and I need the money." Talia looked at the trash bin and then quickly averted her gaze. "Besides, it's not like I want to be here when they retrieve the body."

Roger frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Absolutely." Well, except for an incipient anxiety attack and the knowledge that the night ahead will be very long and very dark. What the hell. Not my first dead body. I'm a professional. Don't try this at home. "I'll ride off into the sunset now."

"Don't forget to send your bill."

"Oh, I won't." She realized she was still holding the gold cuff link. She unclenched her fingers and held out her hand. "You can have this. I won't need it anymore."

"Right." Roger picked up the cuff link and slipped it into a pocket.

She went down the loading dock steps, pulled up the hood of her jacket, and walked toward the far end of the alley. The relentless howl of a siren in the distance announced the approaching police vehicle. The big SUV roared into the alley just as she was crossing the street. She did not look back.

It was a good thing that Roger had not asked for an explanation of how she had located the body of Ray Clayton, because she did not understand it herself. She was not sure she wanted to comprehend it. Her new ability was unwelcome on so many levels. She had not been forced to look at the face of the dead man in the trash bin today, but that would not protect her from the psychic fallout.

Tonight there would be nightmares.

CHAPTER TWO

Come any closer and I'll kill her," Martin Pilcher yelled.

Luke Rand opened his senses to the nightmarish currents of energy that shivered through Pilcher's threats. It didn't take any psychic talent to figure out that the man was totally unhinged.

Pilcher was in the doorway of the small, shadowed house. He tightened his arm around his wife's throat and put the barrel of the pistol against her head.

"I'm not fucking around here," he screamed.

"He's going to do it," Luke said quietly. "We're talking a couple of minutes at the most before he pulls the trigger."

"Shit." Sam Hobbs's expression was grim but resigned. "I'll signal Wilson to take the shot."

"It won't work," Luke said. "Wilson can't get a clear shot. Best case is the bullet punches through Pilcher and strikes the wife."

"Don't you think I know that?" Hobbs's jaw tightened. "I don't have a choice. We don't have time for any more negotiation."

"Let me try before you give the order to Wilson."

Hobbs hesitated. "Okay, you've got one minute."

"Understood," Luke said.

He and Hobbs were standing behind one of the three police vehicles parked in the front yard of the house. Katy Pilcher had tried to hide in the rural town in Northern California after obtaining a restraining order that was supposed to keep her stalker husband from contacting her. But Pilcher had tracked her down. Katy had managed to dial 911 just as Pilcher broke in through a window.

When the police arrived on the scene it became a hostage situation. Now it was about to mutate into a murder-suicide.

So much for the rural community's promise of safety, Luke thought. Lesson learned. Katy Pilcher wasn't the only one who had chosen the small, remote town as a hideout.

In hindsight, it had been a mistake to accept Hobbs's invitation to play poker on Friday nights, but it had seemed like a small risk. Unfortunately, over cards and whiskey, Luke had mentioned that he had done some hostage negotiation. Now he was paying for that slip of the tongue. Fifteen minutes ago Hobbs had called, asking for assistance at the scene of a crime in progress.

Luke focused on the man in...