“Until the psychic starts to react to their presence?”
“Why not? An enemy as large in number as you feel they are must give off a hell of a lot of negative energy. From the research I’ve done about psychics, that seems to be the thing: energy. Psychics tune into it at various…frequencies. React to it when there’s a lot around, like during a storm.”
Slowly, she said, “Storms have bothered me since I came out of that coma.”
“It’s not uncommon, or so I’ve been told. Say that’s it, say whatever you can do, the basis of any psychic ability is energy. And in the beginning, whenever a psychic becomes psychic, or wakes up to it—whatever—the energy has to be almost overpowering.”
Sarah nodded silently.
“So the mind learns to protect itself. It learns to build walls or some other kind of protection against that overwhelming energy. Maybe it learns to filter through all the static and focus on certain frequencies.”
“Makes sense,” she said.
“And it works, to varying degrees. But when these dangerous people are close by, this enemy, they must give off a different kind of energy. Dark, negative. A threat. Even if it’s unconscious, I’m willing to bet that out of sheer self-preservation, any good psychic would catch on pretty quick and be able to start tuning in on them. On that particular frequency. It would naturally make those psychics a lot more wary. It might even cause them to wake up in the night feeling uneasy.”
“But why would that keep the other side at a distance?” Sarah wondered. “Even if they assume I can feel them near me—so what? They outnumber us, we know that. They burned down my house, and we’re reasonably sure they killed a cop as well as some psychics, so they’re clearly not hesitant to use violence.”
“No, but maybe they’re afraid of attention. Grabbing somebody in a crowded hotel could be a noisy proposition. It could draw too many innocent bystanders. Too many policemen not on the payroll. That could be another reason they seem to make their moves at night.”
“So they’re just watching and waiting? Looking for an opportunity to get me when it won’t be noticed? When I can be caught off guard so I’m not likely to make too much noise?”
“It makes sense. As much as anything in this makes sense.”
“Then why leave those flowers? Why make it obvious?”
“A terrorist tactic is my bet,” Tucker said slowly. “Nobody can be wary twenty-four hours a day; if they can keep you rattled, frightened, they stand a better chance of either driving you to make a mistake or just plain exhausting you so you can’t see them coming.”
It was working, Sarah thought. In spades. She looked at him for a moment longer, then turned her gaze forward. The highway was busy on this Tuesday afternoon, and as she watched the cars ahead of them, she couldn’t help wondering whether they were as innocent as they seemed. Maybe there were watchers in that van up ahead, or that racy-looking Corvette. Maybe the truck that had passed them a mile back had done so only to avoid suspicion, the watcher inside handing the duty off to someone else along the way.
Or maybe not.
When an enemy lurked all around, it was easy to become paranoid.
Uneasily, she said, “Has it occurred to you that an accident staged on the highway would be a dandy way to get us?”
“Yes, it has.” Tucker’s voice was grim. “If they mean to kill us, that’d be the quickest way to at least try.”
“If?”
“I have my doubts about that, Sarah.”
She returned her attention to his profile. “Why?”
“So far, virtually everything they’ve done—with the possible exception of burning down your house, and we can’t be absolutely positive that was their doing—could have been an attempt to get their hands on you rather than kill you. Even your own feelings are confused on that point; you know they’re after you, but the major reason you think they want you dead is because of your vision. Right?”
“Well, what about that? I saw my death.”
“You’ve seen a lot of things that could easily be symbolic. The bells, the open grave, and the headstone. Even the murmur of many voices. All of them are or could be symbols of death; the trappings of a funeral and burial.”
“So?”
“So…maybe that’s what you were really seeing, Sarah. The trappings. The appearance of death—of your death.”
“I still don’t—”
“Okay, suppose with me for a minute. Suppose that fire at your house was intended to be a—pardon the pun—smoke screen. Suppose the plan was to get you out before police and firemen arrived, to just take you. Officials arrive, find your house burning, maybe even find a female body in the ruins and, presto, Sarah Gallagher is dead—and nobody’s looking for her.”