And he was almost completely immobile, strapped down to a table so that all he could do was just barely lift his head. That small movement was just enough for him to see how securely he was strapped in place. It was also just enough to show him that this guillotine was designed a bit differently from those he had seen in pictures.
The table he lay on supported his entire length; no basket was placed below to catch his severed head. Instead, the table bore a deep groove just beneath his neck, where the heavy steel blade would finally come to rest-between his body and his neatly severed head.
The head probably wouldn't even move, except maybe to roll gently to the side.
Jesus.
He tried very hard not to think about that. Or about the rusty-looking stains all along that groove that looked to him like dried blood. Which made it fairly obvious that the kidnapper hadn't tested his little contraption by using heads of cabbage.
Probably on Mitchell Callahan.
Instead of dwelling on that, being a cop, Wyatt tried to get the lay of this place. What little he could see from his position was mostly darkness. Two floodlights-or spotlights-were focused on him and this death machine, which made it pretty difficult to see beyond the glare surrounding him.
"Hey!" he shouted suddenly. "Where are you, you bastard?"
There was no response, and the faint echo told him only that the room was mostly hard surfaces without much if any furniture or carpeting to deaden sound. So he was likely in a basement or cellar or, hell, even a warehouse somewhere. He did have the sense of vastness all around him, lots of space.
But that could have been his imagination, he supposed. Or simply the darkness.
He felt very alone.
And he wondered, suddenly, if this was what Lindsay had gone through. Had she freed herself from the duct-tape bindings- which they had discovered partially cut, presumably so that she could free herself within some given time-only to slowly realize that the glass-and-steel cage in which she was imprisoned would cause her death?
Had she known from the very beginning, or had the bastard toyed with her, allowing her to believe that she might escape the tank? Had she been in the darkness, or in a blinding spotlight as he was? Had the water begun to slowly drip from the pipe, or had it gushed?
With a tremendous effort, Wyatt pushed the useless, haunting questions away.
Lindsay was gone. He couldn't bring her back.
And he was going to join her in death unless he got himself out of this. Or… unless Luke really could do what he claimed.
"I find people who are lost. I feel their fear."
Wyatt thought about that, keeping his head turned and his gaze directed beyond the spotlight and into darkness; it was better than looking up at the damned blade hanging over him.
Could that quiet, intense, steely-eyed federal agent really feel someone else's emotions, their fear?
His first reaction was a deep embarrassment that another man might feel the sick terror crawling inside him, might know that about him.
Wyatt didn't want to believe that Luke-or anyone-could do that. Everything in him shied away from the mere possibility. But… he had to admit that Samantha Burke had been right when she'd told them Lindsay would drown. She had warned Glen Champion about his defective clothes dryer, which very well could have caused a fire. And as hard as he'd tried, Wyatt hadn't been able to connect the carnival seer in any viable way to this kidnapping murderer and his schemes.
And Champion had described to him, in halting, wondering tones, what Luke had done. How he'd been able to find Lindsay, and how eerie and shocking had been his apparent mental or emotional connection with her in the final tormented minutes of her life.
If he was genuine… If Samantha was genuine…
If psychic ability was possible, was real…
Staring into the darkness, facing his own probable death, Wyatt Metcalf wished he had more time. Because if the world did indeed hold such possibilities, then it was far more interesting than he had believed.
Abruptly, he saw a light flicker on, illuminating the face of a digital clock. It was placed in such a way that it was not only visible to him but was almost inescapable. And it wasn't, he realized immediately, showing the time.
It was counting down.
He had less than eight hours to live.
He turned his head back so that he was staring up at that gleaming blade. He focused on it. And grimly began working his hands in an effort to loosen the straps tying him down.
"Why does he have to do this your way?"
Samantha looked across the table at Jaylene. "We both know that Luke's biggest flaw at a time like this is his tendency to shut everybody out. Everybody. His concentration is so fixed, so absolute, that he can barely relate to anything or anyone except the victim he's trying to find."
"He relates to you."
With a wry smile, Samantha said, "Not really, except on a very basic level. If this were his usual type of case, by the end he'd see me only as a warm body in a bed."
"You mean, last time…"
"Yeah, pretty much. He was so shut in himself, so focused on the job in those last days, he barely spoke to me. You remember that much."
Jaylene nodded, reluctant. "I remember. But we were all focused on the job, on finding that child."
"Of course we were. But for Luke… it's like his own ability to focus consumes everything else in him. I know you called it tunnel vision then, I guess trying to warn me."
"For all the good it did."
"Yeah, I suppose I could have been more understanding. But it's not easy to find yourself falling for a man who doesn't even seem to see you half the time. Most of the time, by the end."
"Sam, his focus-that flaw-is also his strength."
"Is it?" Samantha shook her head. "I'm no psychologist, but it seems to me that mental focus and concentration that intense can do a dandy job of holding emotion at bay, or even shutting it down entirely. The very emotion Luke needs to feel."
"Maybe," Jaylene said slowly.
"Haven't you ever wondered, Jay, why he almost always has trouble sensing a victim until he's worked himself to the point of exhaustion?" Samantha asked. "Until he's skipped too many meals and too much sleep and tapped so many of his reserves that here's almost nothing left? It's only when he's literally too tired to think that he finally allows himself to feel. His emotions-and theirs."
"When his guards come crashing down," Jaylene murmured, thoughtful.
"Exactly."
"But when the guards do come down, and he feels what they feel, the sheer strength of their terror virtually incapacitates him. He can barely move or speak."
"And maybe that's one reason he resists feeling that for so long. But if he could open himself up sooner, before a victim's fear has grown so intense and before his own exhaustion was so overwhelming, then maybe he could function. Maybe he could even function with some semblance of normality."
"Maybe."
Samantha looked toward the open doorway as though expecting someone to appear, but added, "It isn't a conscious thing-it can't be. No matter what it costs him, he wants to find these victims so desperately that he'd do anything he could. Consciously. Even incapacitate himself, if that's what it took. So it has to be something buried deep, a barrier of some kind. A wall created at some point in his life when it was necessary to protect a part of him."
"You're talking about some kind of injury or trauma."
"Probably. A lot of our strengths come from some hurt." Samantha frowned again. "You don't know what it is? What might have happened to him?"
Jaylene replied, "No-and I've been his partner for nearly four years. I probably know him as well as anybody, and I know almost nothing of his background. From the point that Bishop found him working as a private consultant on criminal abduction cases five years ago until now, yes. Before that, nothing. Don't even know where he was born or where he went to school. Hell, I don't even know if he's a born psychic. How about you?"