He seemed to find this new statement more outrageous than what she’d said before. “Wait, wait, wait. Now you’re talking about another power besides telekinesis.”
“If he has one ability, why not the other?”
“Because pretty soon you’ll be saying he’s God.”
“Just telekinesis and the power to influence my dreams. That explains why I dreamed about the hideous figure of Death in this comic book. If Danny’s sending me messages in dreams, it’s only natural he’d use images he was familiar with — like a monster out of a favorite horror story.”
“But if he can send dreams to you,” Elliot said, “why wouldn’t he simply transmit a neat, clear message telling you what’s happened to him and where he is? Wouldn’t that get him the help he wants a lot faster? Why would he be so unclear and indirect? He should send a concise mental message, psychic E-mail from the Twilight Zone, make it a lot easier for you to understand.”
“Don’t get sarcastic,” she said.
“I’m not. I’m merely asking a tough question. It’s another hole in your theory.”
She would not be deterred. “It’s not a hole. There’s a good explanation. Obviously, like I told you, Danny isn’t telepathic exactly. He’s telekinetic, able to move objects with his mind. And he can influence dreams to some extent. But he’s not flat-out telepathic. He can’t transmit detailed thoughts. He can’t send ‘concise mental messages’ because he doesn’t have that much power or control. So he has to try to reach me as best he can.”
“Will you listen to us?”
“I’ve been listening,” she said.
“We sound like a couple of prime candidates for a padded cell.”
“No. I don’t think we do.”
“This talk of psychic power… it’s not exactly levelheaded stuff,” Elliot said.
“Then explain what happened in the diner.”
“I can’t. Damn it, I can’t,” he said, sounding like a priest whose faith had been deeply shaken. The faith that he was beginning to question was not religious, however, but scientific.
“Stop thinking like an attorney,” she said. “Stop trying to herd the facts into neat corrals of logic.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trained to do.”
“I know,” she said sympathetically. “But the world is full of illogical things that are nonetheless true. And this is one of them.”
The wind buffeted the sports car, moaned along the windows, seeking a way in.
Elliot said, “If Danny has this incredible power, why is he sending messages just to you? Why doesn’t he at least contact Michael too?”
“Maybe he doesn’t feel close enough to Michael to try reaching him. After all, the last couple of years we were married, Michael was running around with a lot of other women, spending most of his time away from home, and Danny felt even more abandoned than I did. I never talked against Michael. I even tried to justify some of his actions, because I didn’t want Danny to hate him. But Danny was hurt just the same. I suppose it’s natural for him to reach out to me rather than to his father.”
A wall of dust fell softly over the car.
“Still think you can shoot my theory full of holes?” she asked.
“No. You argued your case pretty well.”
“Thank you, judge.”
“I still can’t believe you’re right. I know some pretty damn intelligent people believe in ESP, but I don’t. I can’t bring myself to accept this psychic crap. Not yet, anyway. I’m going to keep looking for some less exotic explanation.”
“And if you come up with one,” Tina said, “I’ll give it very serious consideration.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “The reason I’ve argued with you is… I’m worried about you, Tina.”
“About my sanity?”
“No, no. This psychic explanation bothers me mainly because it gives you hope that Danny’s still alive. And that’s dangerous. It seems to me as if you’re just setting yourself up for a bad fall, a lot of pain.”
“No. Not at all. Because Danny really is alive.”
“But what if he isn’t?”
“He is.”
“If you discover he’s dead, it’ll be like losing him all over again.”
“But he’s not dead,” she insisted. “I feel it. I sense it. I know it, Elliot.”
“And if he is dead?” Elliot asked, every bit as insistent as she was.
She hesitated. Then: “I’ll be able to handle it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
In the dim light, where the brightest thing was mauve shadow, he found her eyes, held her with his intent gaze. She felt as if he were not merely looking at her but into her, through her. Finally he leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, her eyes.
He said, “I don’t want to see your heart broken.”
“It won’t be.”
“I’ll do what I can to see it isn’t.”
“I know.”
“But there isn’t much I can do. It’s out of my hands. We just have to flow with events.”
She slipped a hand behind his neck, holding his face close. The taste of his lips and his warmth made her inexpressibly happy.
He sighed, leaned back from her, and started the car. “We better get moving. We have some shopping to do. Winter coats. A couple of toothbrushes.”
Though Tina continued to be buoyed by the unshakable conviction that Danny was alive, fear crept into her again as they drove onto Charleston Boulevard. She was no longer afraid of facing the awful truth that might be waiting in Reno. What had happened to Danny might still prove to be terrible, shattering, but she didn’t think it would be as hard to accept as his “death” had been. The only thing that scared her now was the possibility that they might find Danny — and then be unable to rescue him. In the process of locating the boy, she and Elliot might be killed. If they found Danny and then perished trying to save him, that would be a nasty trick of fate, for sure. She knew from experience that fate had countless nasty tricks up its voluminous sleeve, and that was why she was scared shitless.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Willis Bruckster studied his keno ticket, carefully comparing it to the winning numbers beginning to flash onto the electronic board that hung from the casino ceiling. He tried to appear intently interested in the outcome of this game, but in fact he didn’t care. The marked ticket in his hand was worthless; he hadn’t taken it to the betting window, hadn’t wagered any money on it. He was using keno as a cover.
He didn’t want to attract the attention of the omnipresent casino security men, and the easiest way to escape their notice was to appear to be the least threatening hick in the huge room. With that in mind, Bruckster wore a cheap green polyester leisure suit, black loafers, and white socks. He was carrying two books of the discount coupons that casinos use to pull slot-machine players into the house, and he wore a camera on a strap around his neck. Furthermore, keno was a game that didn’t have any appeal for either smart gamblers or cheaters, the two types of customers who most interested the security men. Willis Bruckster was so sure he appeared dull and ordinary that he wouldn’t have been surprised if a guard had looked at him and yawned.
He was determined not to fail on this assignment. It was a career maker — or breaker. The Network badly wanted to eliminate everyone who might press for the exhumation of Danny Evans’s body, and the agents targeted against Elliot Stryker and Christina Evans had thus far failed to carry out their orders to terminate the pair. Their ineptitude gave Willis Bruckster a chance to shine. If he made a clean hit here, in the crowded casino, he would be assured of a promotion.