Excerpt from The Dark Heart
Claremore, Oklahoma. Wednesday. 3:04 a.m.
"Daddy?"
Sullivan O'Malley jolted awake. He sat up, snapped on the lamp, and looked into the pale face of his six-year-old son. "Trevor, what's wrong?"
Trevor clutched his father's arm with small, anxious fingers. "The bad man killed her, Daddy," he sobbed. "He killed her. He killed her. He killed her."
Sullivan swept Trevor into his arms and held him tight. His heart nearly broke at the frail arms clutching his neck. Warm tears dribbled onto his bare shoulder.
"Trev, we put the bad man away. He went to jail and he'll never get out."
"It's not him, Daddy. It's another bad man."
Sully's heart leapt in his chest. He drew a deep breath. "Was this a regular dream or a special one?"
"Special."
"Are you sure it's not Mr. Keller? Because he's in prison. He can't hurt you."
Trevor sniffled, pulling away to look at Sullivan with eyes too old to belong to a child. "This bad man has a long knife. He put it into the lady's chest. He p-p-peeled her-"
"Sshh now. Do your breathing. Clear your mind. Wrap yourself in white light."
He held onto his weeping son and reached for the phone. The police chief answered on the second ring. "Better be good, damn it."
"Trevor had a dream." Sullivan heard the groan of bedsprings and knew Gabe had bolted upright.
"How bad?"
"If we don't hurry, someone's going to die."
"Already dead," muttered Trevor. "Can't save her." A chill settled in Sullivan's gut as Trevor's voice turned wooden, distant. "He likes it, Daddy. He likes it so much the bad man's gonna do it again."
#
Tulsa, Oklahoma. Wednesday. 3:06 a.m.
Kathleen Bonville woke, her heart beating like a war drum and deep, stabbing pains radiating in her chest. Her panic subsided as she purposefully inhaled and exhaled, concentrating only on the rhythm of her breathing.
Outside, she heard the gentle patter of rain against the hotel window and the distant rumble of thunder. The storm was moving on-at least the one in the sky.
Another one was coming, a bad one-a bloody one. She closed her eyes against the images battering her brain, but doing so made the unfolding horror stronger, brighter.
"Enough," she muttered. She opened her eyes, untucked herself from the bedcovers and reached for the phone.
#
FBI Headquarters. Oklahoma City. Thursday. 5:32 a.m.
"Sir, we received two phone calls about the Harper murder."
"How the hell is that possible?" Senior Agent In Charge Fred Murphy opened the drawer to his desk and took out the bottle of Maalox. He used to keep a bottle of scotch in that drawer, but he'd traded alcohol for tummy soothers eighteen months, three days, and fifty-two minutes ago. Only been two hours since the body was found. Too damned early for crackpot calls. He sighed. "I take it that you found the information interesting enough to report them."
"Yes, sir."
He popped off the lid and chugged. The raging in his stomach made him crabby. Grimacing as the chalky mint coursed down his throat, he glanced at the young woman standing in front of his desk.
Her name was Mariah Kane. She dressed smartly-black blazer, white shirt, black pants, ankle boots-wore her blonde hair chin-length, eschewed make-up, rarely smiled, and had a brain as sharp as a laser beam. She was eager, serious, and like every other trainee he'd ever had, carried a chip on her shoulder. What was it about the sons and daughters of former cops anyway? They usually fell into two categories. Those who wanted to honor their hero parents who'd either retired with a slew of medals or had met death on the job. And those who needed to somehow prove their worth to parents who'd been too tough, too drunk, or too distant. He looked at his protege, who'd been with him almost four months, and wondered which story was hers.
"I'm growing old, Kane," he snapped. "Give me the details."
"The first call was made by Police Chief Gabriel Wade on behalf of-"
"Trevor O'Malley." He went cold. Had that little boy gotten a vision about what the psycho son-of-a-bitch had done to the young Jessie Harper? That's not good news. He took another swig. "The other call?"
"Kathleen Bonville."
"Christ." He resisted the urge to drink the whole bottle. Instead, he put it away and slammed the drawer shut. He respected the hell out of Kathleen Bonville. She was famous now, but twenty-five years ago she'd only been a pretty housewife who lived in Dallas, Texas with her redneck husband and their two little girls. He'd worked in the Dallas branch then and she'd come to him, sweet and shy, and told him about her dreams-dreams that matched the details of several local murders. Yeah, Kathleen had helped him solve his first serial killer case, and they'd been friends ever since. These days, she spent a lot of time on the lecture circuit, touting her books and audiotapes. He seemed to recall she had a movie deal, too. Some years ago, she had divorced the husband. And the little girls were both in college. Remorse arrowed through him. He'd never married and never made babies. What the hell. Too late for regrets.
Kane cleared her throat and jolted him out of his thoughts. "Sir, I know you put O'Malley and Bonville as priority informants, but psychics?"
"Think you know it all, do you?" Before he'd given up alcohol, he would've torn her a new asshole for putting even a hint of derision into her tone. But her response reflected more about her than it did about psychics. People's reactions almost always said more about them than it did about whatever had caused the reactions. That's something he'd learned not as a Fed with thirty years in the Bureau, but as a recovering alcoholic.
Kane hadn't responded to his question. She was chewing on it, though. Galled her to no end that she couldn't learn everything all at once, that she'd already realized experience came from the doing, not the knowing. He swallowed the chuckle. The kid had a lot to learn.
His thoughts turned to poor little Trev. A year ago, Sullivan O'Malley had brought his five-year-old son to the office. Kane had listened to the little boy reveal details about the Craymore family murders that no one else had known. Working with Kathleen all those years, he'd learned to keep an open mind and to listen. And because he did, Trevor helped the FBI catch Carl Keller and put his sick ass away for ten lifetimes.
"Is the chopper ready yet, Kane? I don't want those local yahoos messing up the crime scene."
"Yes, sir."
He rose from his desk and Kane followed, ever the good little soldier. Her heeled boots clicked on the tiled floors of the hallways.
"Where's Kathleen?" he asked.
"Tulsa, sir."
He stopped and Kane, accustomed to his rhythm, didn't stumble as she stopped, too.
"Kathleen is in Tulsa?"
"Yes, sir. She's on a book tour and is supposed to be in town for three days. She said she was available anytime, if you needed her."
If I needed her? Oh, Kathleen. Fred shook off the creeping regrets. What was wrong with him? He looked at Kane. "I'll take the chopper and head to the crime scene. You go pick up Kathleen and bring her along."
He saw the defiance in her clear, gray eyes and wondered if she'd finally pull that stick out of her ass and show some gumption. He watched her struggle with her emotions then her expression blanked and she nodded sharply. "Yes, sir."