Chapter 15

With all the problems facing us, I didn't expect another one coming our way. I was wrong. Wednesday evening after dinner, Loni and I sat with Owen and Maria watching an old John Wayne movie in the entertainment room when my cell phone rang. Caller ID told me the call came from Leah, which surprised me. Then I remembered that I'd told Sable to contact John Savage about some architectural work. Perhaps she was calling to thank me.

"Hi, Leah," I said.

"You said if I ever needed help that you'd be there for me," she said by way of a greeting.

"I did, and I meant it."

"I need help."

"Tell me about it."

"I think I'm being stalked."

My heart started to race. Leah wasn't the type of woman to ask for help at a whim. I moved to my feet and walked from the room.

"Where are you?" I said.

"In my office at the university."

"I can send Greg..."

"No. I've called university security. I'll have the security guard stay with me and walk me to my car. What I want is for you and Greg to help me catch this guy, not just protect me."

"All right. Let me get Greg on the phone with us."

"Wait, Clint. Listen to me. To catch this guy, we'll need a plan, and the plan will involve timing and should take advantage of your unique ability. The FBI recently posted warning flyers at the university about a serial rapist/killer that targets Native American women, full-blooded or otherwise. They posted the warning at the university because his victims have all been female students or women who work for universities. I qualify on all counts. I don't know if the stalker is this killer or a garden-variety stalker, so my plan is to place you within twenty feet of the creep so you can experience his thoughts."

"I understand and concur." She wanted to use my telepathic ability, but at the same time, maintain the confidentiality she'd given me.

"Now, you can get Greg on the phone with us," she said.

After filling Greg in on what was happening, Greg tried to scuttle Leah's plan. With the threat Garfield posed, he didn't want me to leave the compound. Leah helped, though.

"I want Clint involved, Greg," she said.

"Greg, on this one, I won't be deterred," I said.

He caved.

To my mind, the plan we concocted was too complicated. Too much could go haywire, and I didn't like using Leah for bait, but we went with it anyway.

As it turned out, our plan didn't go haywire. It didn't work, either. By the time Greg and I in the Hummer, and Frank in Juan's pickup truck got to the university, the stalker was long gone. With Leah's vehicle, we made us a convoy as we followed her home. She invited Greg and me in to talk about the stalker and the serial rapist/killer. Frank drove back to the compound. John Savage drove up just as we were walking into Leah's apartment.

He was in a word, shook up. Oops, that's two words. John and Leah did some hugging and kissing, and Leah offered drinks, which I accepted. Greg said he'd like a beer, and John joined him. When Leah handed me a glass of scotch and had another in her hand for herself, I raised an eyebrow.

Leah laughed and said, "I'm a breed. My daddy's genes let me handle firewater on occasion, and if an occasion ever called for the hard stuff, this one does."

She sat next to John. He put his arm around her; she snuggled close.

You've found a good man, I said to her silently.

I have, she said.

"Tell us what you know about this stalker," Greg said.

"I don't know much, Greg," Leah said. "Have you ever been stalked?"

"I have, not as a civilian, but when I was in the military I had times when I was the hunted, not the hunter," Greg said.

"Could you sense the hunter? Feel him watching you, following you, even though you couldn't see him?"

"I know that feeling," Greg said.

"I've had that feeling off and on for three days, and earlier tonight, I saw him, probably not well enough to identify him if I saw him again, but I saw him."

Greg had a pocket spiral notebook in hand, and a pen. "Any description at all?"

She sipped scotch and said, "A white man, not a Native American. Tall, probably six feet, maybe a touch taller. Slim build. Dark hair, but it was dark outside then, so his hair might be lighter than what I saw. Clean shaven. I saw him momentarily at the edge of a cone of light cast by an overhead light across the parking lot."

When she stopped, Greg said, "What was he wearing?"

Leah closed her eyes, pictured the man, and said, "Black clothes, trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. White tennis shoes. And he had a black watch cap on his head. That's another reason why I'm not sure about the color of his hair."

Clint, you're the only one here I can say this to, she said silently. I felt him, Clint. I felt him watching me. You have a unique ability. So do I. Only I have sensed your presence in my mind. That makes me unique. The stalker isn't a telepath. He didn't touch my mind with his, not like you, but he touched me. He felt like a dark malevolent force, like a black fog brushing up against me. Does that make sense?

Yes, I said. You sensed evil, Leah. Was Leah an empath? Maybe.

"Watch cap?" Greg said.

"Yes," Leah said. "You know, a knit hat, rolled up a couple of times at the bottom so it sits behind the ears."

"How about a ski mask instead of a watch cap?" Greg said.

Leah frowned. "Maybe." She hesitated. "They have a similar look to them, and in the dark..." She swallowed. "Yes, it could have been a ski mask as easily as it could have been a watch cap." Her eyes drifted shut again. "His hands were weird, whiter than his face, but that could have been caused by the lighting from the street lamp across the parking lot."

"Surgical gloves," I muttered.

Leah spun her head toward me, her eyes expressing her sudden fear. She said, "I was scared before, but you guys are really scaring me. Ski mask. Surgical gloves." She gulped at her scotch. "This guy isn't a garden-variety stalker. He's that serial killer, isn't he?"

Probably, I said silently. I say probably not so much from what you saw, ski mask and surgical gloves to the contrary, but from what you sensed with your unique ability, Leah.

"Frankly, Leah," Greg said, "from what you've told us, he could be anyone: this killer you mentioned, or a different stalker, or just a man in the parking lot. But I, for one, plan to take this very seriously. I think you and John should move into the compound for a while where we can protect you."

"I have classes to teach," she said.

He grinned. "One of my men will drive you to your classes and audit them."

You wanted my help, Leah, I said. Let me help you.

We won't catch him this way, she said.

Probably not. Against my better judgment, I went along with using you as bait tonight, but Greg and I can't protect you if you continue to act as bait. And I don't have the manpower to protect you if you stay here or with John. Your safety has to come first. If the stalker takes a run at you while you're with one of Greg's men, we'll catch him. He won't, though. He's a nutcase, but he's a smart nutcase, or the FBI would have him in irons by now.

She looked at John.

"Let's follow Greg's advice, darling," he said.

She nodded and stood up. "I'll go pack."

Furious, he slammed his hand on the steering wheel and cursed.

The fuckin' squaw had spotted him. He'd taken time off and traveled to Tempe specifically to take the Indian Princess, the filthy Ute breed, but her life had changed since he'd first targeted her for his special brand of treatment. Since his arrival in Tempe, she'd presented no opportunities for the take down. She had a man in her life, a man she was with most of the time when she wasn't working.

He struck the steering wheel again. "The filthy breed is never alone! Spends most nights with her man. Fuckin' him, probably. Filthy, dirty, whorish bitch! Should be with me, not him!"

He'd learned patience, though, the patience of a predator stalking its prey. And he'd been patient. Surely she'd spend some time without the white man around. He told himself that if he were patient, he'd catch her alone and vulnerable for the take down. The capture. And finally that evening, she'd done what he'd expected, what he'd been waiting for. She'd driven to her office at the university from her man's house – alone. And he'd followed her.

Would she return to her apartment, her hovel, instead of spending the night with the white man at his place again? If she did, he'd take her. He'd take her and bind her and gag her. Then he'd snip, snip her clothes right off of her. Then he'd show her what it's like to be with a real man, not that toady prissy shithead she'd glommed onto. He'd pound her into submission. Smash her nose, cut her prominent squaw cheeks with his fists until he could see the white of her cheekbones. Then he'd fuck her again. He'd show her! He'd fuck her again and again until first light. Then he'd choke her.

"No! Take her hair first. Scalp her. Scalp her while she's still alive. And then kill her."

That's the way. Perfect! Take her hair while she's still alive. Listen to her whimpers behind the ball gag. See the blood ooze out of the top of her skull from her still-pumping heart. Feel her scramble against her constraints on the sheets as you strip the skin and hair off her head.

With his fist around his erection over his trousers, he climaxed in his pants. The relief, the lethargy after his orgasm, brought him out of his fantasy.

Where was he? He saw a gas station on his right, pulled in, used his debit card, and started to fill his car with gas. He left the gas pumping and went to the restroom, where he removed the soiled condom and replaced it with a fresh one.

"She saw you," he whispered at his image in the mirror. "She saw you for a split-second. She can't identify you, but she saw you when she was moving from the parking lot to her office. You can't take her now. She'll be too cautious. Save her. Save her for your next trip to Tempe. Savor the wait. Let the tension build like it did before."

Sudden anger flushed through him again. He wanted to smash the face in the mirror with his fist, splinter the image into a million pieces.

He didn't. Instead he smiled, a malevolent expression. "Plan B. Initiate Plan B. The Apache breed you saw the day before yesterday. The young one. The teenager, not the mother. The mother works nights. The girl will be alone."

He left the restroom with purpose and with a new fantasy in progress.

Loni came out of the bathroom wearing a sexy chemise made out of fine black mesh and trimmed with ruffles. Knowing Loni, I'd find a matching thong panty under the chemise. I didn't know how many sets of lingerie she owned, but I'd yet to see the same set twice. Good thing the master bedroom at Refuge had lots of closet and drawer space. It was also a good thing that until Loni moved in with me I'd used only a small fraction of the space.

The woman and the outfit produced the desired results. My excitement became obvious. But when I reached for her, Loni said, "Uh-uh. First we talk. Silently."

I groaned and touched her mind with mine. About what?

Leah, she responded silently.

What about Leah?

Does she still tempt you?

Yep, I said.

That'd be up to Leah, I said. But that scenario won't happen.

Why not? She might be with John, but anyone with eyes can see that she's still in love with you. She might take a run at you.

She won't, I said.

What if she did?

I'd still be with you. I'd turn her down.

She gave me a hard look and then smiled. I believe you. Do you like my sleep wear? She performed a graceful pirouette.

It'd be sort of hard to miss. She giggled. Pun intended.

Loni's giggles were not schoolgirlish. They were mature without squeaks and full of fun and good humor.

"Come here, woman," I growled.

Damned if she didn't obey.

The next morning, I rose at first light, leaving Loni sleeping peacefully in the bed. She was not wearing the sexy lingerie that had jumpstarted my libido. She was nekkid, the way she usually slept. I liked that about her. Makes cuddling feel better.

When I walked into the small dining room, Greta was sitting reading the newspaper and listening to the radio. I didn't read the morning newspaper anymore. Most news was bad news. Good news rarely got printed. Why start the day depressed? I reasoned. Besides, the Arizona Republic was a liberal rag.

For news, I had a television set in my office. I moved back and forth from CNN to Fox, which gave me the news as perceived and slanted by the left and right political factions of the country. By watching both, I could extrapolate a centrist position on my own. I suspected my extrapolations were closer to the truth than what was presented by either channel. I also read news magazines, again published by adherents of both factions, and did some more extrapolating. For financial news, I read the Wall Street Journal and Forbes, both publications right of center, and the left of center Kiplinger Letter Magazine. And on occasion I visited websites offering content from foreign newspapers in English to read some worldviews on the state of the planet.

Greta looked up at me. She didn't say good morning. She said, "It's not in the newspaper, but it's on the radio. The news will come on at the top of the hour. Listen while I get you a cup of coffee."

I sat down just as the news gal on the radio started speaking.

"Early this morning," a pleasant female voice said, "a serial killer that targets Native American women students or employees of universities in the western states struck again, this time in Mesa. The victim..."

"Holy crap!" I breathed. I felt like someone had driven a railroad spike into my skull.

I listened carefully, but like most radio news, it was brief. It was bad news, and it depressed me, but Greta was right to alert me. It was news I needed to know.

When Greta returned with my coffee, doctored the way I liked it, I said, "Does Leah know about this?"

"No, she's still asleep, I think, but Owen and Maria know. They're very upset."

"That's understandable," I said.

"On a different subject, I found a woman to help me in the kitchen. Her name is Opal Black. She's a fabulous baker, and bakin' is one of my weak points. She'll be startin' tomorrow."

"That's great, Greta. Will she be living here at Refuge?"

"Yes, to start with anyway."

"Put her in a one-bedroom unit over the garages."

She smiled. "Okay. Rosa found her help, too. She'll start today, but she won't be livin' here."

"What's her name?"

"Consuelo Hernandez. She goes by Connie. Speaks accented English. She's from the Dominican Republic. Nice woman, and she's got a valid green card. I had Greg check her out."

Greg and Sable arrived. I quickly related the few details about the serial killer that I'd just heard on the radio. Sable gasped. And then Owen and Maria walked into the room.

"Not good," I said to Owen.

"Could've been worse," he said. "A whole lot worse. We've got to do somethin' about this ... this psychopath, boss."

"Might not be the same man," Greg said. "The girl didn't work for a college."

"Her mother did," Owen said. "It's the same man, and it's possible that he's fixated on my daughter. What can we do, Clint?"

"First, make sure Leah is protected," I said. I sighed. "Owen, as long as Leah doesn't leave the compound, she's safe, but she can't put her life on hold indefinitely. Besides, we've got other security problems pressing us, which makes us shorthanded. However, I know an executive protector in Denver, a man named Peter Cornwall. He's one of the best in the business. I know him because he's worked for me before. I hired him on two occasions when Loni was threatened. No offense, Greg, but hiring an executive protector for Leah would be the best way to go."

"No offense taken, boss," Greg said. "I agree with you."

I knew that Greg, in his capacity of head of security, had checked Cornwall out, and what Greg found had impressed him.

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Long Life and Telepathy

Paul Phenomenon

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