Aware he was treading on tricky ground, Quentin said carefully, "Of course he has. Any father would. And, like most people, I'm sure he sincerely believes in modern-day medical science. What he doesn't believe is that the paranormal exists. Which is why the possibility that you might be psychic quite likely never even occurred to him."
"Or to any of my doctors, highly educated though they were?"
"Especially them." He shook his head. "There are a few pioneers researching the paranormal — there always have been. But mainstream medical science can't prove to its satisfaction that psychic abilities are real."
"Why not?"
He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Can you prove what you experienced out on the veranda was real? Even more, could you duplicate that experience in a lab?"
"No, I can't prove it. And I sure as hell couldn't duplicate it. Because it was all in my mind." It had to be. Surely, it had to be.
Ignoring her denial, Quentin said, "Much of science is based on the belief that the results of experiments have to be duplicated, again and again, under very controlled conditions, before anything can be proven factual. But psychic ability doesn't work that way."
"Yeah, right."
Quentin smiled. "Unfortunate but true. My boss says that if ever a psychic is born who can completely control his or her abilities, the whole world will change. He's probably right. He usually is. But until then, until a psychic or psychics come along who can consistently demonstrate and control their abilities, we're left out on the fringes."
"The lunatic fringes?" she murmured.
Unoffended, he said, "You'll find plenty to say so. But we're doing what we can to build a solid reputation in order to be taken seriously. We believe we understand how most of our abilities work, if only in a general sense, and those beliefs are grounded in science. We're working very hard to train our abilities to help us better do our jobs."
Quentin paused, then added, "And don't discount the fact that the FBI, not the most frivolous organization in existence, was accepting enough of the idea to allow our unit to be created in the first place some years ago."
Diana took another sip of her tea, more to be doing something than because she wanted it.
Quentin went on, "Diana, I know this is a possibility you've never considered. But what will it hurt to consider it now?"
"I'd be lying to myself. I'd be looking for an easy answer." Her reply was automatic after so many years of being warned by doctors not to justify, not to attempt to "explain away" her symptoms.
"Who says the answer has to be complicated?"
"People are complicated. The human mind and human emotions are complicated."
"Agreed. But sometimes the answers aren't complicated at all." He smiled again, ruefully this time. "Although, as a matter of fact, you'll find that having psychic abilities complicates the hell out of your life."
"Gee, that's all I need."
"I'm not handing you a magic pill. And I'm sure as hell not telling you that your life will suddenly be perfect, all your problems in the past, just because there's a very simple answer to the question of what's wrong with you. Nothing is wrong. Your mind just works a bit differently from what is traditionally considered the norm."
Listen to him.
Diana caught her breath, staring at the cup in her hand. It had always sounded alien, that particular whisper in her head, somehow not a part of her. It was one reason she had never been able to completely buy the doctors' various explanations — because all of them had more or less stated that what she "heard" in her mind were only aspects of her own personality.
So why did this whisper feel like someone else?
"Diana?"
She set her cup down and looked at Quentin, listening to the rumblings of the storm as it rolled around the mountains and seemed to circle the valley. Round and round and back again. She tried to listen to that and not to the whisper in her mind.
He can help you. He can help us.
To Quentin, a bit unsteadily, she said, "I've sat across from enough doctors to have heard, over the years, most of the jargon. It varied a little from one to the next, but one thing they all had in common was the absolute conviction that hearing voices made you delusional."
"If you're insane. Not if you're psychic."
A little laugh escaped her, hardly a breath of sound. "They were all very careful not to use that word. Insane. Very careful to find nice, socially correct words and phrases to use instead. Disturbed. Ill. Confused. In need of more... advanced... therapy. I think my favorite phrase was 'in transition.' I asked that particular doctor what I was in transition from. Or to. He said with a perfectly straight face that I was in transition from a state of confusion to a state of certainty."
"Christ," Quentin muttered.
"Yeah, he wasn't the best at it. He didn't last long. Or — I didn't last long with him."
Diana...
"Diana, I know I'm asking a lot in asking you to believe that you're psychic—"
"What makes you think I am, by the way? I could have been making up everything I've told you." She was trying very hard to ignore that other voice.
"You didn't make up that sketch — so to speak. Besides, we tend to recognize each other."
"At first sight?"
"Pretty much."
"I see. So now I'm a member of a secret club?"
Quentin grinned suddenly, recalling that initial conversation with Bishop years before. "Something like that. As for recognizing others like you, you'll find it comes in handy."
"You claim to be psychic, and yet I didn't... sense... anything different about you," she said, realizing as the words emerged that she was lying. She had sensed something, had known in an instant that her life was about to change forever because of him, even if she hadn't been able to admit it to herself then.
"I'm willing to bet you did," he said, still smiling. "But you haven't been taught how to sort through the impressions of all your senses. I can help you with that."
"Sure. And then I get to recognize people as nuts as I am."
"You aren't nuts."
"No, just seriously disturbed."
"That either. Look, even if I was wrong about you being psychic and you did accept the possibility, would you be worse off than you are now?"
"I don't know."
... listen to him.
"Could you be? You've been medicated, and you've tried every form of therapy available without success. Why not take a chance and find out if I can help you? What have you got to lose?"
Instead of answering that, Diana said, "You believe I can help you solve Missy's murder, don't you?"
Quentin hesitated, then said, "There has to be a connection. You drew her picture."
"Even if I did, that doesn't mean I can help you. If I'm psychic, as you claim, then maybe I just... picked up her image somehow. From here, this place where she died. That would make sense — at least in your world."
He ignored that little dig. "Maybe you did. But if you did, it's very likely you could pick up other information as well."
"Information about Missy and her murder."
"Yeah, maybe."
"So who's helping who?"
This time, Quentin didn't hesitate. "We're helping each other, or we will be."
Listen to him. Let him help us.
Diana forced herself to stand up. "I have to think about this," she told him. "I — the storm seems to be easing up. I think I'll go to my cottage for a while." She took a step away.
On his feet as well, Quentin said, "Diana? Better stop by the front desk and have your keycard redone. We both know it won't work."
"How did you—"
"We usually have a higher than normal level of electromagnetic energy in our bodies. Tends to interfere with some electrical or magnetic things, especially those we have to carry around with us. Like watches. And keycards."