Murder Game (GhostWalkers #7)(13)
Author: Christine Feehan

Maybe she was hitting a little too close to home. Of course they’d all speculated that several of their bosses had a hand in creating them. Whitney couldn’t have done it alone, and he was still working for the government, sanctioned by someone, because he was escaping every effort to capture or destroy him. He had friends in high places.

“I suppose you have a point. There’s every possibility Whitney is following orders, but what he’s doing is wrong in so many ways I couldn’t even begin to tell you.”

“And if the order comes down to eliminate your fellow GhostWalkers, will you carry it out because they told you to do it?”

He removed the vegetables from the heat and turned completely to face her, his face settling into hard lines. His eyes went flat and cold, the blue turning nearly black, focused and hungry like the cougar. “There would be a war like no one has ever seen before.”

A shiver of fear crept down her spine, but she liked him a lot better for it. He wasn’t joking, and so far, she was fairly certain he had told her the truth about everything. She was very sure he meant what he implied—he would go to war for or with his friends. She gave him a concession, then, a piece of herself because he’d revealed a part of his character to her.

“My parents always told me I was special. That my talent was a tremendous gift, not a curse, and that I could do things no one else could do for a reason. I started tracking serial killers when I was thirteen years old because I believed that was what I was supposed to do with my gift. I heard about somebody dumping the bodies of young girls next to schools and I thought, I can stop him. So I did.”

Her voice was calm, remote; no expression chased across her face. Kadan knew self-preservation when he saw it. Tansy had removed herself from her past and simply recited the details as if they’d happened to someone else—and maybe they had. Her experiences certainly had to have changed her from that young, innocent girl. And she was giving him something of herself, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“It must have been difficult, especially with you being an empath and so young. Did Whitney help prepare you?”

Tansy frowned. “How would he have helped me?”

“There are exercises you can do to strengthen each of the gifts you have and ways to learn to combat the repercussions of using psychic energy. I would have thought Whitney would have taught them to you.”

“No, he didn’t teach me anything. He studied me. If there was a way to combat the rush of impressions from objects, I certainly was never told. I wore gloves, of course, but the feelings, particularly emotions that were violent, often leaked through anyway. Whitney liked to observe other people’s pain. It helped with his own.”

Everything in him stilled. She had revealed an important piece of information without even knowing what she was giving him. “What pain?”

“He uses other people’s pain to drown out his own. I think his pain stems from perceived abandonment, real or not; he feels very disconnected from everyone around him. He has rage toward his parents and teachers, people who didn’t recognize his genius. He’s very patriotic and has anger toward certain individuals in the government who don’t share his vision, because he believes he’s smarter and they should listen to him. All of that causes pain, but he doesn’t recognize that it does. He can’t connect with anyone.”

“He has a daughter.”

She nodded, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully, frowning while she did so. “Lily. He spoke of her sometimes, and when he did, I could feel a rush of emotion in him, but it wasn’t like my parents when they touched me. It wasn’t the same as anything I’ve ever identified with as a parent’s love. He views her as an extension of himself. He’s a megalomaniac, has an absolute belief that he’s superior to everyone else and that no one will ever measure up to his capabilities except perhaps Lily—or her children.”

Kadan nodded. “That’s a fair assessment of Dr. Whitney.”

“You’re certain he’s still alive? My parents—well, my father—always insisted we use him as a doctor, but I haven’t seen him since he was supposedly murdered.”

“What kinds of things did he do to you?”

“He told Mom and Dad he was helping me with the headaches, but they never went away or even got better. Mostly he gave me physicals, asked a lot of questions, was very interested in whether I had sex or not, and took a lot of blood and tissue samples. He also spent a lot of time on my eyes. He was very interested in the fact that I almost always have to wear dark glasses and that I see differently than other people.”

Kadan was very interested in whether or not she had sex as well, but figured this wasn’t the best time to ask her. “What’s different about the way you see?”

Tansy shrugged, but didn’t comment.

Kadan let it go. “Did he give you injections?”

She nodded. “They hurt like hell.” She frowned. “You know, I didn’t always get a lot off of him, the way I do most people. Not him, exactly, his things. At the time, when I touched objects, I could read a lot about a person, but it was more difficult with him. Of course, by that time, I tried to wear gloves everywhere I went.”

“You haven’t felt anything even when you touch an object I’ve touched, have you?” Kadan asked. “I’m an anchor, which means that I can draw psychic energy away from you. I can also shield both of us from any energy and keep others from feeling ours.”

He deftly added the vegetables to the rice and took the plates she handed him to serve the meal on. “My talents come in handy on missions when we need to hide from the enemy.”

“But not so handy tracking serial killers,” Tansy observed.

He nodded. “I’m good at working puzzles out, and once I’m pointed in the right direction, I’ll find him, but I need a little help.”

Tansy’s heart jumped. She could never allow him to lull her into a false sense of security. “I’m sorry that help can’t be me, Kadan, but it can’t be. I know you’ve got all the ugly little details of my hospitalization. They couldn’t take away all those voices, the victims—or the killers. Do you have any idea what it’s like to hear screams and feel someone’s desperate last thoughts all the time, and I mean all the time? To know the mind of a killer intimately? The delicious perverted pleasure he gets out of carving someone up, or burying them alive?” The door in her mind creaked ominously and whispers grew. She took a deep breath, controlled herself, and slammed it shut. “You’re already bringing those days back and I haven’t even tried to help you.”