John shook his head. "Even assuming I can accept that, it still doesn't explain Maggie and what she seemed to be going through. You seriously expect me to believe that she has the ability to feel-physically experience-what happened to another person here in this room weeks ago?"
"You saw the same thing I did," Quentin reminded him.
"Yeah, but…"
"But you didn't believe it."
"I believe she's sensitive enough to have… imagined… what Hollis Templeton must have gone through here in this room, but to say she actually, physically felt it-no. I don't believe that. I can't believe it, Quentin."
"Which is another reason I told you not to go after her." Quentin completed his examination of the room and returned to John. "One of the hardest things to deal with when you know you can do something beyond the abilities of most other people is the disbelief and often fear of those around you. Nobody quite calls you a liar-but the doubt is easy to see. And feel. Especially when you can't really prove what you can do. She can't prove to you that she's an empath any more than I can prove to you I know some future events before they happen. Even though I keep trying." Quentin studied his friend with a faint smile. "We've laughed and joked about it for nearly twenty years. And in all that time, you've ascribed my ability to tell you what's going to happen before it happens to luck, to intuition, to inspired guesswork or a logical sequence of events-to everything except what it is. Precognition. Clairvoyance. Knowledge before the fact."
"You've been right more than you've been wrong," John admitted.
"Thank you,' Quentin said dryly.
"But how is it possible to know something before it happens? Explain that by taking what we know to be scientific and extending it to the next logical level."
"I can't. The truth is, I have no idea how I'm able to do it. If I understood it, I could probably control it. I could say to myself, Quentin old buddy, how will the stock market look by, say, the end of the year? What lottery numbers are going to come up winners? Which one of the dotcom companies is really worth an investment? Who'll win the Super Bowl?" He shrugged. "But it doesn't work like that. I wish it did-but it doesn't."
"Which is why you can't tell me if the police are going to catch this rapist."
"Which is why. I only know what my wayward mind chooses to tell me-and that isn't something I've been told. So far, at least. Sometimes, once I've got involved in a situation, I've been able to pick up facts related to the future of that situation-but my control could best be described as erratic as hell."
"That's not much help."
"Tell me about it. You know, my boss says that if a psychic is ever born who can totally control his or her abilities, the whole world will change. He's probably right. He usually is. Dammit."
John stirred slightly. "And speaking of Bishop-how long before he shows up here with blood in his eye?"
"Never, I hope." Quentin sighed. "Realistically, I figure I've got maybe forty-eight hours or so until the case he's on breaks or he has a spare minute or two to realize I should be back at Quantico by now. I was going to ask Kendra to run interference for me, but I figured we'd need her here. She's a crackerjack profiler and researcher as well as an adept, and we may well need all her abilities."
"She's at the hotel?"
"Yeah. On the computer, tapping into every database we thought might be helpful. And I suggest we go back there. This place is giving me the creeps."
"Professionally, or psychically?"
"Both. Not being empathic, all I get is a sense that the bastard picked his dumping place very carefully-but I don't know why. The cop in me sees the signs that other cops went over this area with a fine-tooth comb. I won't find anything they missed. You have the forensics report?"
"A copy, yeah." By mutual consent, both men turned and began making their way out of the abandoned building. "I have no way of knowing, of course, how complete it is. But I'm betting Drummond has given orders to hold back on at least some information."
"Probably. It's standard procedure to keep some facts within the investigating unit-to weed out copycats and more quickly zero in on similar crimes, if nothing else."
"Maybe, but I figure this is personal."
"Don't get paranoid."
"It isn't that. I've weighed enough competitors across boardroom tables to know when someone is out to beat me. Drummond wants his people to find this bastard, and he wants it bad. He isn't above keeping some information out of my hands just to make sure I'm handicapped."
"His political aspirations?"
"Partly. And he's the competitive sort by nature."
"Well," Quentin said, "we can work around that. Hopefully. You do realize we're going to have to be very, very careful not to do anything to impede the official investigation?"
"I realize that."
"And that your Maggie is going to have to walk a very fine line while she works to help both us and the police?"
"After what happened here, I'm not at all sure she'll be willing to help us," John said.
"Willing," Quentin said, "has little to do with it. Unless I miss my guess, Maggie Barnes feels she has to help us. She simply doesn't have a choice."
"I don't like it," Andy said. He stared down at the scrap of paper now sealed in a clear plastic evidence envelope, feeling as grim as he looked. "Jenn, you're sure this wasn't in your car when you got back from lunch today?"
"Positive. So somebody put it in there while my car-my locked car-was parked in a police lot. Lousy security around here, Andy."
He looked across his desk at Jennifer, not misled by the flippant tone. And he didn't blame her for being shaken. He was pretty damned unnerved himself. "Assuming this is useful information and not just a couple of random numbers, and assuming it's even connected to this particular case, I suppose somebody might have been trying to help us. Or it could have been some enterprising member of the press, maybe trying to get a reaction out of us," he speculated. "It's at least conceivable that one of them might have stumbled onto the 1934 murders."
Scott, sitting across from Jennifer in Andy's other visitor's chair, said reluctantly, "Isn't that a bit of a stretch? I mean, even supposing a reporter dug up the similar murders, why tell us-and anonymously? Why not just run with the story?"
"Yeah, it's a stretch," Andy admitted. "The truth is, I can't think of a reason why anybody'd do this. Except for our perp, that is."
Having given the matter a lot of thought, Jennifer shook her head. "I don't see that. He's gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to hide from us-why step out into the open and do this? If he wanted to taunt us, I figure he'd do it another way. Maybe leave something on the victim or change his M.O. suddenly. But notes left in a cop's car? No, I don't think it's him."
"Then who?" Scott demanded. "You and I stumbled into this just tossing around ideas because we were frustrated there wasn't more we could do. How likely is it that somebody else took the same turns and reached the same possibility?"
"Not very," she admitted. "Besides which, if this note was intended to be helpful, then why give it to us anonymously and make damned sure there were no prints on it? Why not come forward and explain themselves?"
Slowly, Andy said, "Unless whoever it is knows there's a connection because he-or she-knows or suspects who the rapist is. It wouldn't be the first time a family member or suspicious wife or girlfriend knew just enough to worry about it but was too afraid or ashamed of their suspicions to come forward openly."
"A good possibility. But why the hell did they have to pick my car? And how'd they unlock and then re-lock the doors without leaving signs, dammit?"
"Maybe it was a locksmith," Scott offered, only half joking.
Andy shrugged. "Hell, maybe it was just somebody who knows cars well enough to be able to get into yours, Jenn. Or had an electronic key that worked. In these days of glorified electronics, it's getting easier rather than harder to jack cars, so why not? Anyway, until we find out who left the note, there's no way of knowing."