Deadly Visions Part 8

No reaction.

He leaned closer. "There will be people talking to you, Monica. Your judgment may be clouded by the medication, but you must not discuss why we're here. Am I making myself clear?"

No reaction.

He gripped her hand harder."I could end this right now, Monica. I could kill you, leave here, and no one would ever know. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, but if I hear you're saying too much, I'll have no choice but to come back. I don't want to do it, but I will. No matter how confused you get, how disoriented you are, you must not tell. Do you understand?"

A single tear ran from her left eye.

He released her hand."I'll take that as ayes."

Morning, Bailey." Carla took a huge bite from her onion bagel as the other cops in the conference room turned toward Joe. Detectives with any involvement with the Spotlight Killings were gathered for a meeting to discuss the Monica Gaines incident. Carla smiled."You impressed the h.e.l.l out of that hotel security guy with your spirit kit last night. Did you bring it with you?"

Joe threw his jacket over the back of a chair. "I dont need my spirit kit today unless you guys suddenly get weirder and creepier than you already are." He showed Carla and Howe the sketches he'd found in Monica's hotel room."Do you see anything strange about these?"

Howe flipped through the drawings and nodded. "It looks like she spent a lot more time on these. Not the rush jobs she did for us. Maybe she wanted prettier versions for her website."

"That's what I thought at first," Joe said. "But the backgrounds are different. It's like she wasn't familiar with the locales when she drew these."

Carla stared at a picture of the first murder scene they visited, with its floating spirits, shadowy tree branches, and full moon. "You think maybe these are first drafts, drawn before she even got here?"

Joe nodded. "Exactly. I may ask her about it later. Any idea how she's doing today?"

Howe shrugged. "She slept through the night, but her condition's still critical. I don't know if she's conscious or not."

Captain Henderson entered the room with half a dozen well-dressed men and women. Howe whispered to Joe,"Mayor's office flunkies. I just met some of them in the hall. This meeting is for their benefit."

Although Howe and Carla were visibly annoyed by having to endure what was probably their twentieth meeting on the killings, Joe appreciated the discussion and slide show that followed. Aside from his crash course from Carla the other night, he had little direct exposure to the case, and he was glad to hear directly from the officers who worked the various crime scenes. At the end of the officers'presentations, Henderson introduced a slick young man named Alex Spengler, the department's media relations director.

"Gentlemen, while you work this case, please be mindful of the fact that this has now become an international media event," Spengler said. "Monica Gaines's books are published in over thirty languages, her television show is seen in something like twenty countries, and her website receives several hundred thousand hits a day. She's not just a normal celebrity. Her fans see her as a savior, and they're already lining up in front of the hospital. We've already received reports that they're flying in to stand vigil. They may try to go to the places she's been. Her producer is continuing production of her show with guest hosts."

"Guest hosts?" Carla asked. "A different psychic every night?"

Spengler shrugged."They'll be doing daily reports from here. Watch what you say. You may think you're shooing away some nut with a camcorder, but that footage of you could be beamed all over the world by nightfall."

"Got it," Howe said sarcastically."Priority one is for us not to look bad on camera."

"No one's saying that," Henderson said,"but you're more than cops on this case. You're representatives of this city. Be nice."

The room filled with cops'grumbling as if they'd been asked to make a monumental sacrifice.

Henderson motioned toward Joe. "Detective Bailey will be a.s.sisting us. If you have questions about any purported psychic phenomena, talk to him."

Someone in back whistled the Twilight Zone Twilight Zonetheme.

After the meeting adjourned, Joe accompanied Howe and Carla to the Peachtree Summit Studios, where Glen Murphy's coproducer, Chris O'Connor, was finis.h.i.+ng up work on the singer's final alb.u.m. O'Connor had bleached-blond hair, a cheerful red face, and a boisterous Irish accent that somehow made everything sound like the punch line to a joke.

"Murphy was going daft, if you ask me," O'Connor said."Which, of course, you didn't, but when has that ever stopped me, eh?"

"Why did you think he was ...daft?" Howe asked.

O'Connor leaned back in his chair at the mixing console."Why, he was hearing things. That's not good for a music producer when he's mixing an alb.u.m. The hearing's everything."

Joe nodded."So what was he hearing?"

"Voices, mostly. Scared the h.e.l.l out of him, I must say."

"Where was he when he heard these voices?"

O'Connor gestured around the studio. "Around here, mostly."

"Did anybody else hear them?"

"Not at the time. That's why I thought he was daft. Not daft, maybe, but exhausted. He was practically living here. The alb.u.m was late, and the label wanted it something awful. But something strange happened when I came in here to try and wrap things up. That's what made me call you fellas last night."

"What happened?"

"I was cataloguing some of the tracks he'd laid down for this song, and I heard something I couldn't explain." O'Connor's fingers glided over his console. "Listen for yourself. This was a percussion track that Murphy recorded sometime in the last week of his life."

O'Connor pushed a b.u.t.ton and moved up a slider until they heard a slow, rhythmic drumbeat through the sound booth's speaker system. Chris suddenly pointed at the speakers. There was a faint whispering sound.

"Hear that?" he said.

"What was it?" Carla asked.

O'Connor grinned. "I couldn't tell at first either. I thought maybe Glen was trying to lay in a subliminal message or something." He pushed a red b.u.t.ton."So I filtered out the drum and took a closer listen. Here's what I came up with."

He pushed another slider, and a low voice whispered from the speakers, "Come with us, Murphy.... Die with us, Murphy...."

Carla stepped away from the speaker as if the voice might reach out and grab her."Holy s.h.i.+t."

"Leave your world behind you, Murphy.... The time has come...."

The whispers had a bizarre, ethereal quality unlike anything he'd heard, Joe thought. "Is this what Murphy claimed to be hearing?"

O'Connor nodded."Near as I can tell. He was wearing headphones playing the other tracks while he recorded this, so he might not have known he actually got the voice on tape. But he described it to us, and this sounds like it." O'Connor rewound the recording and played the whispers back.

"Die with us, Murphy...."

Howe pointed through the booth's gla.s.s window. "Are you telling me that this voice somehow came from that room?"

O'Connor nodded. "That's where the microphones are."

Carla nervously moistened her lips."This is incredible. Most of those victims claimed to hear voices, but this is our first evidence that they actually existed."

"Can you make us a copy of this?" Joe asked.

O'Connor picked up a CD and handed it to him. "Already done, my friend. I hope it helps. You know, I think I may leave it in the song. Couldn't hurt sales, you know. I think this is going to be the alb.u.m's breakout single."

"What's it called?" Carla asked.

"'Nothing but the Stars.'A real catchy tune."

Sam Tyson stared at the boom box in the cluttered back room of his downtown magic store. "Jeez, kind of chills you to the bone, doesn't it?"

Joe pushed the stop switch. He'd made a ca.s.sette copy of Murphy's percussion track before turning the CD over to the police crime lab. The techs already knew that the song's t.i.tle,"Nothing but the Stars," had been "read" by Monica at Murphy's crime scene, and they pestered him for an explanation. All in good time, he'd told them. "The voice doesn't sound real, does it?"Joe said.

"Neither does the music, for that matter. How do people listen to that c.r.a.p?" Sam picked up an armload of packing straw and shoved it into a wood crate. He was packing up a custom-built illusion he called Ice of Atlantis to send to a Las Vegas magician who had become rich performing Sam's spectacular tricks.

Joe smiled."Let's forget for a moment that you hate any music past Rudy Vallee's time."

"I'm not that old, kid."

"Crosby and Sinatra's time."

"Now you're talking."

"Most of the spotlight murder victims heard strange voices in the last days of their lives. This is the only recording we have. Do you know anybody who specializes in audio tricks?"

"Like ventriloquism?"

"Not exactly. There was no one else around in most of these cases."

"I'll have to think about that one." Sam leaned against the crate. "I bought a new TV last year, and it has a setting that gives the illusion that the sound is coming from behind you."

"Surround sound?"

"Yeah, but there aren't any speakers behind you. The circuitry plays with the sound in such a way that it fools the ear into believing that part of it is radiating from behind."

Joe nodded."A lot of newer televisions do that."

"Well, I know a ventriloquist who can do it without a lot of fancy electronics. Whatever that TV is doing to the sound, he must be able to do by sheer instinct. You'd swear his voice was coming from behind you."

"Like I said, there was no one else present at these places. And as bitter as I'd be if I had to make my living as a professional ventriloquist, I don't think it's bad enough to turn one into a serial killer."

"Well, being a professional magician was bad enough to turn you into a cop."

"Good point."

"All I'm saying is that there are all kinds of ways to fool the human senses. We know how easy it is to fool the eye, kid. I'll try to put you in touch with some people who can fool the ear."

"Just what I was hoping you'd say. Thanks, Sam." "Anytime. Give me a hand with the lid, will you?" Joe helped Sam lift the heavy wooden lid and position it squarely atop the packing crate. Joe smiled as he caught sight of Sam stealing one last look at his hand-crafted illusion before sealing it for the long cross-country journey. It obviously pained him to release each new illusion, like an artist being forced to part with a favorite work of art.

Sam met Joe's eyes and nodded at the understanding he saw there. "This is a good one, Joe. It's gonna make a lot of people happy."

In a suburban neighborhood off Peachtree-Dunwoody Road, Haddenfield pulled to a stop and climbed out of his car. Shawn Dylan was already there, waiting in the shadows of a large sycamore tree.

"You're late." Dylan spoke matter-of-factly, without a trace of anger in his voice. The way he always sounded, Haddenfield thought, until his cooler-than-cool demeanor suddenly erupted.

"I was busy," Haddenfield said. "We're setting up a new base across the street from Monica Gaines's hos-pital. There were some details to hammer out."

"You know my feelings on the matter."

"You're not the least bit curious about what happened to her?"

"Of course I am. But there are matters that require our more immediate attention, and I still think Monica Gaines is a liability."

"She's an integral part of our work."

"She was wasan integral part. Now she could destroy everything."

"I don't feel that way."

"My superiors agree with you. Otherwise ..." Dylan glanced away.

"Otherwise what?" Haddenfield stared at him."You would have killed her already? Is that what you're saying?"

Dylan was silent.

Christ, Haddenfield thought. "Your superiors recognize this as an opportunity, Dylan. I haven't lost sight of our objective. You'll get your prize, and I'll get mine."

"Until we leave, I'll be staying close to Monica. There may be other interested parties, you know."

"I know."

"And just so you know, there's a limit to my superiors'indulgence. Believe me, you don't want to be around when their patience is at an end."

Joe stepped inside Monica Gaines's room.

"Yes, Detective. I'm still here." Monica's face was still red and swollen, but she looked more alert than when he'd last visited.

Joe smiled."Hi, Monica. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been set on fire." Her voice was thin and weak.

"Did they give you something for the pain?"

"Only a little. They wanted to dope me into oblivion, but I didn't let them."

"Why?"

"If I'm going to die, I don't want to spend my last days in a fog."

"n.o.body says you're going to die."