Chapter Twelve

Emma was mobile flame, writhing hot and alive in his hands. Burning him to his core. Driving him mad with need. Sam’s erection was steel. Every nerve in his body stood at high alert. At some point he dimly cautioned himself about control. Then she’d cried out against him and moved her hips in a way that blew every fuse he had to dust. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to be slow. He wanted her to think of only him. To need and want only him. To fall under his spell long enough for him to prove to her how good they could be together.

But desire had other ideas. It drove him like a mad man. She was soft and pliant. He devoured her, wanted more than her kiss. Wanted her in the most basic way a man wanted a woman who worked him into a primal heat: naked and beneath him. Sweaty and needy. Calling out his name. Giving over to the passion.

Sam shifted so he could slip his hand beneath her sweater, skim the flat hollow of her belly. Find the lace of her bra, the tender breasts beneath. Emma encouraged him with feminine sounds of approval and subtle moves, allowing him better access yet keeping him close. The blaze between them flared white hot. He wanted to strip them both bare, but some vestige of higher mind managed to hold him back.

“Want more?” Sam didn’t want to leave his next moves to chance. If she wasn’t ready, he’d rein it in. She was sending all the right signals, but it was important for him to be certain. For her to give the all clear. His heart pounded like a rocket launcher against his ribs. He couldn’t recall the last time he had this much trouble breathing. He was seventeen again, with all the uncertainty and awkwardness, all the wonder and aching desire.

Emma smiled up at him, her eyes half lidded, her skin flushed. “A virtuous woman would say no. I’m not feeling virtuous, though. So yes, Sam. I want more. A lot more.”

Blood roared in his ears as she spoke. Impossibly, he hardened more. It would be touch and go from here. He wanted to last, but he was in trouble and slipping fast, slipping in a way thinking of baseball scores and ice cold showers wouldn’t stop.

Sam dipped down to kiss Emma again but the vibration in his back pocket stopped him before he could bring his lips to hers. He froze, praying it was a mistake. A wrong number. It buzzed again, and he ignored it in favor of the kiss. In a few moments he’d ease her down onto the rug before the hearth and make love to her until her toes curled. The call rolled to voicemail, but moments later, the phone buzzed again.

“You should answer that,” she said, her voice sounding drugged. “It could be important.”

“Not more important than us.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, “not as long as the case is active.”

The cell buzzed with renewed vigor. “And after?”

“We’ll see how convincing you are.”

“How am I so far?”

Emma slapped his arm playfully. “Don’t fish for compliments. Answer the phone.”

Cursing, Sam rolled up into a sitting position and grabbed the Blackberry. It was Jake Meyer. “This better be good,” he snarled into the phone.

“Lou Preston’s dead. Shot in the back out by his garage. Deputy found him when he drove by to drag him from his day off and loop him into the ongoing case.” Jake’s gravel hard voice rocked Sam out of a state of bliss back into the real world. “That good enough?”

“Any idea who did it?”

Emma sat up and watched with a mix of curiosity and dread, mirroring what he felt inside.

“No. Been out in the rain. Driveway’s new blacktop, so no tire tracks either. Whoever it was, Lou knew them enough to let them get close.”

Emma’s newest revelation was gaining credence. Lou was definitely involved in Jen’s murder, or in the cover up. “Anything I can do?”

The question was reflexive, too many years of being a cop died a hard, slow death. There was nothing he could do. He was a civilian. Idiot.

“Now that you mention it, yes,” Jake ground out. “We’ve got crap for evidence so far. State police techs are tossing the place. Can you bring your psychic by, see if she picks anything up? I don't like the rising body count of the last twenty four hours. I’m not too proud to use anything I can to keep it from climbing any higher.”

“Sure,” he said, never once thinking Emma would say no. She wasn’t that kind of person. When she committed to something, she went in with all she had and stayed to the end. “Why are you running this investigation? Aren’t you the mayor?”

“Not since Lou got himself shot. Emergency meeting of the town council got me back in the saddle, until we can get him replaced. I’ll see you in ten.”

The line went dead. Sam didn’t like the direction things were taking. The real killer was spooked, taking out the conspirators one by one. The last remnants of his desire cooled to ice. To Emma, he said, “Lou Preston’s dead. Shot in the back. Jake wants you out there, unofficially.”

“Tying up loose ends.” She stood, and straightened her sweater. “What is the mayor hoping for?”

“Acting sheriff. He has no evidence. He wants us to swing by, see if you catch any vibes.”

“I’m not a miracle worker. Things like what I picked up about the lake are rare. The exception, not the norm.”

The need to protect fired up. He knew how she hated dealing with the cops, how they often made her feel. He’d personally throttle anyone who tried to make her uncomfortable in any way. “He’ll take whatever you can give. If it’s nothing, that’s okay.”

Emma regarded him for a long moment. “Does he know that?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll explain it so he understands. Don’t worry, Emma, I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know Sam. And that’s what scares me.”

~ * * * ~

The cold rain was relentless. Wind tugged at the umbrella Sam held for her as they stood over the spot where Lou Preston breathed his last. Behind them, bright lights sliced through the thick dark of the night. The expensive custom log home, newly built, was a strange grave marker for the civil servant, raising Emma’s con artist instincts more than anything else roused her psychic sense.

“Anything?” Sam’s voice was neutral, neither hopeful nor mocking. Off to the side Jake Meyer stood watching them in silence. The mayor turned acting sheriff appeared impervious to the weather and anything else that might rattle normal mortals.

“Same as earlier.” The feelings here weren’t as strong as at the lodge, but the energy had a similar quality. Sporadic, yet when information came through, insistent and focused. As if it broke through some kind of wall, hurtling through briefly, only to be pulled back by an unseen jailor. “I get red. The color. Like I’m looking at a wall of it. Candy apple red. Too bright. Obnoxious. Fast.”

“Maybe a car,” Sam offered.

Emma reached out, tried to drill down. “I can’t say. I get the same feeling by the front porch as here.”

Jake said, “It’s more than we’ve had. Likely it’s a car. If we assume Lou’s energy is what Emma’s picking up, then he’d be thinking like a cop. More literal than abstract. Someone drove in here in a red vehicle to do the job, I’ll bet.”

Emma was shocked speechless by Jake’s words.

So was Sam. His eyes narrowed. “You seem pretty good at this psychic detective stuff Jake.”

Jake’s expression was unreadable. “Not my first time to the dance.”

“Did Keith know that?” Sam’s voice was low and tight, his body coiled and ready to spring.

“Ease up Tyler,” Jake said. “Who do you think put him on to Emma?”

For a moment she forgot her surroundings and all the horror. Alarm bells from her old life rang out in her head. “What exactly is going on Jake? Why in the world would you know me?”

“Keith was running through charlatan after charlatan. I made a few calls. Tracked down some better qualified names.” He tipped his head and rain sluiced off the brim of his hat. “Eric and Emma came up, so I passed on the info is all. Someone had to help the guy. Everyone had pretty much written him off.”

Though Jake addressed both of them, these words were meant for Sam to hear. He used the same direct approach he’d used earlier to get Sam to open up about the full scope of what Emma had discovered. The message was clear: you screwed up once, don’t screw up again. Emma reached out, trying to probe Jake’s energy and gauge his intent, but she ran up against a stone wall.

“I shouldn’t have left him on his own with this mess,” said Sam. “I’m glad you reached out when you did.”

“You’re here now getting the job done. That counts for something,” Jake said. “It’s getting hot, Tyler. Watch your back.”

Emma gave up trying to pick up any of his energy. Jake was unusual: a man with secrets, and a will of iron that could keep out even a strong psychic. For now, it was enough that she and Sam had his support. But it left her curious about how much he actually worked with psychics beyond the one incident he’d mentioned.

She hugged her arms to herself. Reading her signals, Sam drew her close. “You feel up to trying the house, or have you had enough?”

Wrapped in the security of his strength, as well as the acceptance she’d been given by the small police department of this peculiar Adirondack town, Emma felt a depth of belonging she’d never known before. It came to her in a wave, threatened to overwhelm and drown her, but she was floating to the top, riding the crest. Supported. Safe. It was like a dream amidst the madness. The thing she’d so often craved, and wondered about, being given so freely. It took the edge off everything, including the disturbing idea that there were people watching her. People she didn’t know. Would never know.

“I’m fine.” She looked up at the house. “How’d Lou Preston manage to afford this kind of place on a civil servants salary?”

“Lou had a distant relative die. Turned out he was the guy’s only heir. Lou used the inheritance to buy the land and have the house built.”

Inheritance? No way. Lou got this house through pay off money. Her instincts on this stuff were never off. Her father had trained her too well. “I’d bet my reputation that this was a Dead Cousin Mildred.”

Both men looked sharply at her.

“Dead Cousin Mildred was a name my dad used for a special type of money laundering scam. It’s done when you want to get a pay-off to someone, but bury the source and make it appear legit,” she began by way of explanation. “Before I tell you how it works, let me ask you something, Jake. Did most of what Lou inherited come in the form of art, or coins. Perhaps antique furniture?”

Even the stony-faced Jake couldn’t hide the surprise at her announcement. “According to Lou, gold coins.”

“Textbook Aunt Mildred. The client needs to pay someone off, but wants to hide it. So they work with a shady lawyer, find someone who recently died without a will, without any immediately obvious tangible property or high amount of savings, and without relatives. Not hard to do, since certain attorneys specialize in this service. The lawyer suddenly turns up with the missing will, identifying the guy who gets the payoff as Dead Aunt Mildred’s long, lost heir.”

Sam nodded, understanding dawning in his gray eyes. Emma continued. “The inheritance is never liquid cash. Instead, named in the phony will are items that can be purchased for cash without a paper trail by the person who needs to make a pay off, and resold or cashed in by the person getting the pay off, like gold coins. The estate is closed out by the crooked lawyer, the items are liquidated, and the pay-off is complete and appears legit. When done right, it’s almost impossible to trace and it tends to float under the radar because of the guise of legitimacy attached to it. Classic money laundering.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Jake said. “Let me guess, there’s a time factor too. Say a year or two after the event.”

Emma nodded. “You don’t want it too closely associated with whatever task generated the need for a pay off. Normally the probate can be stretched to about a year, so that’s often the waiting period to complete the laundering process.”

“I think it’s safe to assume Lou was involved in, or knew who was involved in, Jennifer Vaughn’s death.” Jake looked over to where they’d found the body. “And he’s dead because of that knowledge.”

Beside her, Sam tensed. “Why kill a guy you paid off who’d kept silent to now?”

“Tying up a loose end,” Emma said automatically. “If no one but Keith was investigating, the killer felt safe. But now bodies turn up, potential sources of new evidence. Chances are that evidence might lead back to Lou. Or, maybe Lou will want more money to keep silent.”

“It’s certainly a viable theory,” Sam countered. He turned to Jake. “Worth looking into.”

“We’ll be looking into a fair amount of things now, especially Lou’s finances. Follow the money beyond Dead Aunt Mildred. See where it really leads.” Jake stepped out to lead the way inside. “Like I said earlier, you both need to be careful.”

The interior of the log home was as well appointed as the exterior. Emma went through it, reaching out for any stray energy. When they’d completed the circuit and were back at the front entrance, she gave one final try. As before, she had only one clear impression.

“Fear,” she said to Sam and Jake. “Lou Preston was afraid. Not of someone in specific. It was more fear of an event. Maybe exposure. Loss. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was making plans to leave the country. When you have this level of fear, it triggers the fight or flight response, and I didn’t sense Lou was up for a fight.”

They talked a little more, mostly Jake giving them cautionary advice. When an evidence tech called for him, he bid them good night. Her curiosity about him had fired her up. Why had he been so ready to help Keith? Why had he believed Sam and acted on the say so of a psychic? Why did his eyes look sad when he thought no one was watching him? Emma had to know. She had to understand. If only to make sure this hard to read man wasn’t working an unknown angle, or playing into them for his own ends. As he left, they brushed arms accidentally. Emma seized the opportunity and reached out for anything to satisfy her curiosity and answer all her questions.

She hit an ice cold wall. Solid like steel. Then came the fleeting sensation of bone deep loss so powerful, it made her dizzy. Sam put a steadying arm around her shoulders.

“You okay?”

“It’s been a long night.” She and Sam walked to the car, and at the door, she paused. “Did something happen to Jake a while back? Did he loose someone important to him?”

“Jake married his high school sweetheart a year after they graduated. They were like some couple from a fairytale. We used to give him crap about it all the time, but we all envied what they had. She went on a ski trip one day with friends and took a fall. Six hours later she was dead. Bleeding in the brain.” Sam opened the door for her. “He never got over her. Joined the army for a while, came back home, but he’s never let her go.”

Emma thought about his words and her impressions. Jake carried the woman’s ghost with him the way Keith Vaughn must have done with Jen. It made sense, then, why Jake Meyer was so helpful. So accepting. Only someone who’d experienced a similar sudden loss would be able to empathize so easily.

There was more to this vacation town and the residents than she’d imagined. So much below the surface, it made her think about the people at the lodge the night Jen died. What unseen connections existed, what ties bound them that outsiders couldn’t see, or didn’t know of because they didn’t know the right questions to ask?

They drove to the lodge in silence. Emma was glad to get back to somewhere warm, where there was a soft bed, even if it was beneath the roof of creepy Holloway Lodge. At the door to her room Sam seemed reluctant to let her go.

They shared a long, searing kiss. The question was in his eyes. In his touch. In a thousand ways without speaking he asked her if she wanted him to stay the night. And she did. More than anything she did. But the day had wrung her dry, and her response to his touch when they were in the great room scared her. If she took him to her bed, she needed to be clear. Clear and ready for what would, and wouldn’t happen.

She broke away first. “Good night Sam.”

“I’m only a shout away.”

Emma slipped inside and closed the door, not trusting herself to speak anymore. She was no sooner inside than her cell rang. It was Eric, calling in response to the email she’d sent earlier.

“Hi.” She collapsed onto the sofa. “Thanks for getting back to me. I know how busy you are.”

Eric’s rich laugh echoed across bandwidth. “You sound like hell, all formal and worried. Anything new since the email?”

Emma caught him up on the situation. “I don’t understand this, Eric. The lodge amplifies everything. I’m connecting with ghosts instead of picking up general psychic impressions. What’s going on?”

“There are times a psychic’s power evolves. You lose acuity in one area and gain it in another. I saw this happening to you for the last year. That’s why I’m not surprised you’re connecting in a situation where no one else was able. When a psychic goes through that shift, they have a tremendous amount of wild power, and as a result can get hits where no one else is able.”

“What are you saying? I’m turning into a medium?”

“I don’t know what you’re becoming. It will take a year or maybe two before your shift is final. I’ve even heard of some psychics losing the gift. For a short time. And on one occasion, permanently.”

If it were true, she might no longer be useful to Eric. And she' d be out of a job. Her heart sank. There was no controlling the gift. You had it or you didn’t. It worked or it didn’t. Apparently, it could change and shift. And if it went away entirely? Then what?

Drained and exhausted by everything that had happened, and everything she could be facing, Emma wanted to find a place to hide and rest for a week straight, maybe more. From the ultimate loss of Sam to the potential loss of her current skills, there seemed no escape from unwanted change. “The spirits seem to be waiting for something. They’re not responsive the way they’ve been. Any ideas on how to lure them out?”

Eric gave her a few different suggestions but didn’t think they’d work. “If you sense energy building, and the spectral events have died down, it usually indicates they’re trying to conserve energy. Spirits do that when they’re trying to do something big that requires a reserve of power.”

Could the news get any worse? “Any way to tell what that might be?”

“Tarot cards, divination, maybe. But usually, no. It’s hard to fathom the agenda of the dead. They don’t work on the lines of logic, reason, and desire the way the living do. Be careful, though, I don’t like what you’ve told me. I suspect they’re saving energy to use against someone, or make a very big, very unmistakable display. You have angry spirits, they’re likely to act out against those they perceive have wronged them. You also have a killer on the loose. Stay sharp, Emma. You don’t want to be collateral damage.”