He got nothing.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. A condescending smile touched her mouth, as if she had known what he expected and was amused by his surprise. Much the way a cat was amused by a mouse’s attempts at escape.
It pissed him off. “Just waiting for you to begin.”
She didn’t move her gaze from his. “You’ve been given everything. Everything but what you long for most.”
“And what is that?”
“You know in your heart of hearts.” She closed his hand into a fist. “But what you seek is not here.”
Generic, Zach acknowledged. He could have rattled that off. Or Mick.
But her words rocked him to his core.
Everything but what you long for most.
What you seek is not here.
“Brilliant move,” Mick said as they walked away, “getting her to take your hand. What did get from her?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeated, tone incredulous. “For real?”
“Yeah. Not so brilliant after all.”
“I didn’t know that could happen.”
“Neither did I.”
“Maybe it was the gloves?”
It wasn’t. He’d felt the warmth of Knight’s skin through them, had felt her steady pulse.
“Maybe,” he said anyway.
“She was lying. About not remembering Miller. I’m not surprised, though. People like Knight, living on the fringe, don’t want any involvement with cops.”
Micki paused, studying him with narrowed eyes. “Your reading, what she said. It’s bothering you.”
What you seek is not here.
Answers. The truth.
He shook his head. “No.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
That Brite Knight was different from anybody he had ever met. He had held her hand—and felt nothing. She had looked at him—and he had known she saw into the very darkest corners of his being.
That had never happened before.
Almost as if Brite Knight wasn’t human.
Chapter Twenty-three
Wednesday, July 10
8:50 P.M.
Zach glanced at Mick. She sat at her desk, bathed in the glow of her computer monitor, intent in her search for the meanings of the number seven. In the forty-eight hours since locating Knight, they had followed every possible lead in an effort to locate Gwen Miller. Questioned classmates and teachers. Family, friends, co-workers. Anyone whose path had crossed hers in recent weeks.
Nothing. Nada. It was as if she had fallen off the face of the earth.
Miller’s family had proved to be as draining as Mick had warned. They were understandably frantic with worry, both needy and demanding. They’d had difficulty grasping the concept that he couldn’t be looking for their daughter and holding their hands at the same time.
Holding their hands. The emotion that had transferred from their hands to his had been overwhelming. Especially Miller’s father. His baby. His little girl. Zach had been assailed with images of the young woman as a child—special, precious moments he’d had no right to be a part of.
But he hadn’t been able to shut them out.
And yet with Brite Knight, he’d clasped her hand and felt the loudest nothing imaginable.
Almost as if she wasn’t human.
“You’re staring at me,” Mick said, not looking up. “Why?”
He was, he realized and dragged a hand through his hair. “Let’s call it a day. I’m beat.”
“You go ahead. I want to finish this search.”
“Anything so far?”
“More than I expected. Seven’s a biggie. Lots of symbolic meanings, both cultural and religious. Plenty for some sick bastard to latch onto.”
“Call me if you find something.”
She looked up then, eyebrows drawing together. “You going anywhere besides home?”
“Not planning on it. Why?”
“Wondering if I need to be on high ass-saving alert.”
He laughed. “I’ll S.O.S. you.”
“Be careful. This time I won’t have the Nova to save the day.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The French Quarter street outside the Eighth was crowded. Mick had warned him that weekends could get nuts, depending on what was going on in the city. Festivals, a sporting event or convention. Mardi Gras, God help them. Basically, anytime tourists poured into the Quarter, their lives went bat-shit crazy.
Zach started toward his vehicle, then changed direction, heading deeper into the Quarter. He wove his way through and around the partiers—being bumped and jostled—wandering aimlessly. Oddly, there were more people in the Quarter than the other night, but less energy.
Or was he simply adapting to it?
He found himself standing in front of St. Louis Cathedral, in the spot where Brite Knight parked her table. He smiled to himself. Not so aimless after all.
Brite Knight had the gift. She had seen something bad when she took Gwen Miller’s hand. Bad enough that she had run away. Strong enough that she had been unable to protect herself against it. That she had been unable to hide her fear—no, horror—from Miller and her friends.