Isn't that the usual story, he thought, smiling. Nobody would see it here. And if anyone else in the Society ever saw him smile, they might well find a wall to protect their back. Not that he would shoot a fellow operative in the back, but the taint of Sigma was a hard thing for them to get over. Besides, his talent wasn't warm or fuzzy, it was flat-out dangerous, and he didn't have any gift for making himself liked.
Delgado flitted through the dark, empty streets as if they were enemy territory. He found a good sheltered spot to watch the woman's house from across the street, lying under a hedge, the branches obscuring him from sight. It was cold, but not unbearable. Thank God it hadn't rained for a while. If he had to lie in the mud, he'd never hear the end of it.
The mailbox said “Price” in neat, even lettering, but there was no mail inside that would give him a clue. He let himself relax a little, slowing his breath, waiting, but he could see no telltale shimmer in the air around the house. Which meant either she was fantastically good or untrained. Either way it was going to be one hell of a hassle. If Henderson decided to recruit her, he'd probably send Yoshi to make contact. Yoshi was the most nonthreatening.
Delgado settled himself for a long night, watching Miss Price's house.
Chapter Three
Rowan carried her coffee cup out the front door, yawning and shivering in the early-morning chill. The paper lay out in the driveway, and she scooped it up, digging her toes through her pink fuzzy slippers into the concrete. Another yawn overcame her as she turned to go back into the house.
The sun was up, making her squint as she glanced over the yard. Frost edged the grass, and her roses were bare and leafless. She finished yawning, contemplating her front yard, and started up the driveway again. She stopped halfway to the house, something nagging at her. Some instinct warning her, but that was silly. Keep your head out of the clouds, Ro, she thought, and continued on.
The sense of being watched returned as she put her slippered foot on the first porch step. She stopped and looked over her shoulder, scanning the street.
Nobody there.
I'm probably just nervous from last night, she thought, and shook her head, taking a sip of coffee. It was too cold to stand out in her front yard woolgathering. Her breath plumed in the air while she made her way back up the porch steps and into the house. The Major had raked all the leaves into piles, preparing to get them into the compost heap. The sight of the bare, leafless trees made her feel a little sad. But that was silly too.
"Paper, Dad,” she said, coming into the kitchen and dropping a kiss atop her father's steel gray head. He growled, and she set the paper in front of him and poured him a cup of coffee, adding a little milk. I drank so much black coffee it hurts m'gut, he said sometimes, shaking his head. But I can't give it up, so I cut it with a little milk. Sissy.
And Rowan would always laugh. Not a sissy, Daddy. Just a softie.
By long agreement, neither of them spoke again until they had both finished a cup of coffee. The Major read the business section while Rowan read the comics. Then she got up and scrambled some eggs, made his toast the way he liked it—almost burned—and poured him a glass of orange juice. When that was done, she made her own toast—barely browned—poured more coffee, and settled down at the kitchen table with her well-thumbed Compleat Shakespeare while her father digested the rest of the paper, spreading it across the butcher-block table with complete abandon. It was the only messiness he allowed himself.
She was deep in the wilds of Othello when the sense of being watched returned, making her shiver. She hurriedly took a sip of coffee to cover it, but her father's green eyes came up over the rim of the International section of the paper and fastened on her. “Rowan?"
She waved a hand at him. “Nothing, Daddy."
He folded the paper and set it aside. “You look pale, sweetheart. Is it one of your feelings?"
Rowan felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Dad.” Her tone was firm. “You know I don't believe in that junk.” Or I only wish I didn't.
"Well, is it?"
"I just feel like I'm being watched, that's all,” she admitted, setting her coffee cup down and scratching at her neck. Her conscience pricked her. Why hadn't she told her father about the Taylor house last night?
Because I don't want to worry him, she told herself firmly. It was nothing, just some college kids doing a stunt.
Something nagged at her, though. Some uneasy feeling. Rowan finally sighed and met her father's eyes squarely. “I'm uneasy,” she said. “I don't know, Dad."
"Well, pay attention to that feeling,” he said, returning to his paper. “More there than you know, princess."
Rowan suppressed a sigh. For a former Marine and such a precise man, her father was certainly in love with woo-woo. He read all sorts of books on psychic phenomena, listened to radio shows about the unknown and subscribed to magazines about New Age stuff. Rowan felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Well, he's earned a little eccentricity, hasn't he? And ever since Mom died, he's been getting more and more into this stuff. I think it's comforting for him. Probably harmless, too. She took another drink of coffee. It's nothing, Rowan. Just ignore it. You don't need a bunch of weirdness messing up your life.
She settled back into Shakespeare's comforting rhythms, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of being tickled right on her nape. Eventually it would go away. It always did.
Chapter Four
"Holy Christ,” Zeke breathed, the binoculars almost lost in his beefy paws. He handed the ‘nocs over, elbowing Delgado in the process. “Take a look at that."
Delgado did. He whistled, a long low sound.
The blue van was parked just west of the Price house, looking old and neglected from the outside. Inside, the computer screens in the back cast an eerie green glow over the darkness. But in the front, morning sunlight poured through the privacy-tinted windows and gave both men a clear view of the house.
The woman shuffled out the front door, a steaming mug in her hand. She was slim, slightly less than average height, and lost in a bulky plaid bathrobe, with fussy, fuzzy pink slippers on her feet. A long fall of slightly curling ash-blonde hair glowed in the clear winter sunlight, and even from here Delgado could tell she was pretty. When he focused the ‘nocs, he found himself looking at clear pale skin, an aristocratic nose, great cheekbones, and a flawless mouth. Dark circles under her eyes only served to underscore how green they were. The robe showed a fascinating slice of white décolletage, and Delgado dropped the ‘nocs. “Damn,” he said.
Her voice was slightly husky, he remembered. A contralto, when it wasn't squeaky with fear. He'd been almost close enough to touch her last night.
"You got that right.” Zeke shook his bullet head. “She's a live wire, Del. Look at this.” He held up a scanner.
The handheld Matheson unit was going crazy, colored spikes shifting on the screen, the dial at the bottom twisted all the way into the red. Zeke's dark eyes were wide and worried. He scratched at his chest through the black T-shirt with blunt fingers. His many-times-broken nose wrinkled a little.
Delgado sighed. “Christ,” he said, and dug in his breast pocket for the cell phone. He dialed, his eyes still nailed to the woman, who had straightened and was shuffling back to the house. “Look at that. Looks and talent."
It was a bad joke, but Zeke laughed anyway, whistling through his mashed nose. Humor helped.
The phone crackled in Delgado's ear. “Henderson,” the old man barked.
"General, we've got a live wire,” he answered, with no preamble. “She's picking up her morning paper and nearly blowing all the circuits in Zeke's unit. Looks like she's got a helluva lot of raw Talent, but she's virtually untrained."
"Where's the dial?” Henderson asked. He sounded a lot less cranky and a lot more awake.
"Over in the red.” Delgado watcher her, his mouth suddenly dry for no good reason. “You should see this, General. The goddamn thing looks like smoke should be coming off it."
r /> The woman paused at her porch steps and glanced down the street. She seemed to be listening for something.
The van's shielded, he thought, but I'll bet you ten thousand she can feel us anyway. Goddamn. “I think she might know we're watching, too,” he added.
The General was silent for a moment. “Let's just hope Sigma isn't on our tails,” he said finally. “I'll have Yoshi step up his monitoring. Make contact as soon as possible, Del. Don't let Zeke approach her. He'll freak her out if she's that sensitive."
"Wait a minute—why me?” It took him by surprise, so much so that the question came out stunned instead of calm. He would spook her too. His own particular Talent made him unpopular around other psis. It was as if they could smell the danger he carried.
Delgado took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the woman, who seemed to be staring right at them. Then she shook her head, as if dislodging a thought, and went back into the house, shuffling in the ridiculous slippers. God, she's beautiful. Why does she wear that shit? Then again, if she came out in silk and high heels it might cause traffic accidents.
"Because Cath'll frighten her, so will Brewster,” Henderson answered, “and I need Yoshi to work on those rigs. We've got to get them up and running. Use those interrogation techniques you're so proud of. Besides, if Sigma gets there, you're the best bet to extract her from them. Bring her in, Del, and work fast. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it.” He suppressed the urge to swear. Those were all valid points, but if she was half as sensitive as the scanner said, he was the one most likely to spook her. Goddammit, what's wrong with me? “How long do I have?"
"Forty-eight hours max. We'll get you a dossier in two. I'll get those rigs working and we can blow this town. Be careful, okay?"
"Absolutely,” Delgado answered, staring intently at the house. He hung up.
"What's the word?” Zeke asked.
"You're supposed to stay out of the picture. I'm supposed to recruit her in forty-eight hours. And keep a weather eye out for Sigma, because the telems still aren't finished and might be leaking."
"Yeah? And when do you walk on water?” Zeke sniggered. “You get all the great jobs. Bet those legs go all the way up to her chin.” He picked up the ‘nocs and scanned the house again.
"She's probably a nice girl,” Delgado said absently. “Watch your mouth, okay?” There was a long silence. Zeke was pale when Del glanced over at him. “What?"
"Nothin',” the big guy said. “I didn't know, Del. Okay?"
Is he sweating? Jesus. Does he think I'm going to turn on him? “It's not a big deal, Zeke. Chill."
"Yeah. I'm gonna go monitor, okay?"
"Sounds good. Tell me as soon as we get the doss on her."
"You got it."
Zeke didn't have to worry. His Talent made him impervious to psionic attack. Delgado couldn't crack him if he tried. Still, Zeke was nervous. They usually were.
Delgado slid over into the driver's seat. “All right, Miss Price,” he said. “Come on out and show me that pretty face again."
Chapter Five
"Hey, Dad. I'm going for a run and then we can do some errands,” Rowan braced her foot on the second step, tying her shoe. Let's hope the laces don't break, she thought sourly, and made sure her MP3 player was securely clipped to her sports bra.
"Ruin your knees running like that,” he called back. Rowan grinned.
"I run on a track, Dad. And I wear proper shoes. My knees are fine."
"Be careful.” He shuffled out of the kitchen, holding his coffee cup. “I'll be ready by the time you get back."
"No hurry.” She bounced up to him and gave him a kiss on his leathery cheek. This close, she could see the deep crow's feet near his eyes and grooves at the corners of his mouth, the ravages of time on his face. “We've got all day. Be good."
"You too, princess. Did you stretch out?” He sounded worried.
"Of course I did, Dad.” She rolled her eyes, sounding like a teenager again for the first time in a good twelve years. “I'll be back in an hour or a little less."
"Be safe, sweetheart."
She gave him another kiss and went out the front door. The cold made her suck in a quick breath, since she was wearing tight bike shorts. She got to the sidewalk, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her running jacket.
When she made it to the corner, she glanced at the Howell's house. There was a blue van parked out front, a rundown thing. Maybe someone was visiting. Rowan settled the earpieces in her ears and punched the “Play” button.
Ten minutes later, she was at the high school, cutting through the soccer field and heading for the track, her arms swinging and her breath coming in long deep swells, pluming in the chill air. As soon as she hit the track her stride lengthened, and she began to run.
Running was the best. Her feet pounded the track as she paced herself, a Bach cello suite echoing in her ears. As usual, the outside world fell away, her attention narrowing to the steady beat of her feet on the track, the rhythm of her breath, aching in her calves, her pulse pounding in her wrists and throat. Her ponytail bounced and her hands curled into fists.
By the time the music shifted through Chopin and into techno, she was sweating freely, steaming in the chill air, everything left behind her. Work, worry, her father's trembling hands, the waves of other people's emotions threatening to drown her, all left behind. The patients on the ward, their insanity burrowing inside her skin, her own freakish abilities threatening to escape her control—all of it was left in the dust as she stretched herself out and let herself fly, or the closest to flying she could reach.
Nine laps later, when the music slipped back through its cycle and turned into Debussy's Clair de Lune, she slowed regretfully, but her breath came in harsh tearing gulps and her legs were on fire. She tore the ponytail holder out of her hair, walked around the track until Satie's Gymnopedie came through the earpieces, and then she turned toward home.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths, keep breathing...
Her mood had lightened considerably. Her hair bannered back on the breeze as she slowly walked back home, feeling the burn in her legs and side. The stitch on her left side returned, but it receded as she breathed through it.
The blue van was still there. Why am I looking at that? she wondered, walking past it. It just looks wrong. But that's silly, Rowan. Stop it. You've got a day of errands to run and dinner to cook. So just stop being an idiot, okay?
Still, the van bothered her ... and goose flesh slid down her back again. Maybe it was just the cold.
She bounced up the porch steps and into the house. “It's me, Dad,” she called.
"Hey, princess. How was the run?"
"Fabulous.” She took a deep breath in. It smelled like garlic. “Are you making more chicken soup?"
"And some bread,” he called back. “Hilary's coming for dinner."
Bless you, Dad. “Sounds good.” It had been at least a week since she and Hil had indulged in a good gossip session. Maybe they could go out to a movie. She unclipped the MP3 player and wound up the earplug cord. “How's Tuna?"
"Fine and frisky,” Dad said. “Should be no trouble. Hey, Hilary wanted you to call her back."
She always wants me to call her back. We've been burning up the phone lines since fourth grade. Should have bought stock in the phone company. “I will, right after my shower."
He made a sound of assent, and Rowan bounced up the stairs, suddenly feeling lighter and freer than she had in a long time. Everything was going to be all right. On a crisp winter morning with an endless blue sky, a morning run and a day of errands was the best of all possible worlds.
Still, the blue van nagged her. Maybe she would call the police and have them check it out, especially since she was so concerned with her civic duty lately.
Yeah, and have them think I'm a nosy Nellie. And maybe have them find out about me.
Better nosy than sorry about it, though. And if she called from a pay phone, they wouldn't be able to find out
about her. Rowan knew better than to mistrust her instincts. Hadn't they warned her of danger last night? And like an idiot, she'd just gone blithely ahead.
If the van's still there tomorrow, I'll call the cops from a pay phone. Just to have them check it out.
Chapter Six
Delgado quietly shut the van door. Every time they left the shelter of the vehicle, it upped their chances of being seen. But he couldn't drive the van after the woman, so shadowing her on foot was the only option he had.
She walked through her neighborhood to the high school, cut through a soccer field, and took to a track, running slowly at first, saving her energy. After about fifteen minutes she started to really go for it, long ash-turned-golden ponytail glowing in the sun, legs flashing, her face blank with effort. Running with headphones, he thought dryly, standing in the cover of a cedar tree whose branches made a nice little tent. His breath made a white cloud in the air. Doesn't she know anything about safety? Then again, it's broad daylight, and she's a civilian. Still, though.
The thought of anyone watching her while she ran so blithe and unconcerned made his fingers tighten on the ‘nocs. Don't be ridiculous, he thought, and don't get emotionally attached to a subject. She could be government. She could be anything. Just because she's psi doesn't mean she's on our side.
She finally slowed after a while, walked around the track twice, her arms swinging and her shoulders less tense, and then headed for home. She didn't look back, and Delgado didn't sense she was aware of him. You knew after a while if your subject was nervous or suspicious.
He let himself back into the van and was greeted with a file folder and Zeke's grin. “Hey, old son,” the big man said. “Enjoy yourself?"
"Exercise never looked so good,” Delgado replied dryly. “What's the word?"