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  Now that Peter had moved on, he was doing better than he had in years. Would learning about Kimberly’s bracelet send him into another tailspin?

  Jasmine set the phone down again. It probably wasn’t wise to take the chance.

  And then there was her East Indian mother. Gauri was so full of bitterness and blame, toward Peter and Jasmine, she had difficulty being in the same room with either of them.

  The phone rang. Nervous that it might be one of her parents—that she’d be confronted with a situation she hadn’t figured out how to handle—she checked caller ID, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was her friend and coworker, Skye Kellerman. Actually, Skye Willis since her marriage last year.

  Dropping into a seat at the kitchen table, Jasmine rubbed her fingers over her left eyebrow as she answered. “Hello?”

  “I just got your message. And several from Sheridan, too.” Skye’s voice came across as brisk, worried. “I’m sorry it took me a few hours to get back to you. David and I were in Tahoe and didn’t have phone reception.”

  “It’s fine,” Jasmine said.

  “It’s not fine. Are you okay?”

  Jasmine wasn’t sure. One minute she was filled with rekindled hope, the next terrified that nothing could change the outcome of her sister’s abduction. “I’m okay,” she said, although her mind added a little “not.”

  “This is so…unexpected,” Skye exclaimed. “Why now? Why after so many years?”

  Jasmine had asked herself the same question. But it hadn’t taken long to come up with the most probable answer. “It must be because of the publicity on the Polinaro case.” Four weeks ago, she’d been on America’s Most Wanted, profiling a sex offender who’d victimized nine boys. When authorities got too close, he fled. She’d been invited on the show to suggest places he might have gone, things he might be doing.

  “Of course,” Skye agreed. “That episode aired right before Thanksgiving.”

  “How else would he have known where to find me?” After her mother had remarried and left Cleveland, where Jasmine was born, Jasmine had dropped out of high school and moved away from home, starting a three-year descent into drug abuse and self-destruction. During that time, she’d drifted from one city to another, working odd jobs, even begging in the streets for enough money for one more fix. She doubted anyone could’ve tracked her movements back then. Her parents certainly hadn’t been aware, much of the time, of where she was or what she was doing. It wasn’t until Harvey Nolasco, a long-distance trucker, picked her up and insisted she get some help that she settled down. And then she’d married a white man, like her mother, and became Jasmine Nolasco for a short while.

  “I’m pretty sure they posted our address at the charity,” Skye said.

  “They did.” When dealing with the media, Jasmine always mentioned her affiliation with The Last Stand. TLS relied exclusively on donations to keep its doors open. She couldn’t miss the chance to raise public awareness and support, and it’d proved to be a good move. Since the episode had aired, they’d received thousands of dollars—and more requests for help than ever before.

  “The package came to the office, right?” Skye clarified.

  “Sher found it with the other mail and brought it with her when we met for lunch.”

  “Have you had anyone inspect that note?”

  “We took it directly to the police.”

  “And?”

  “They confirmed it was written in b-blood.” She stumbled over the last word because picturing the large square letters on that note sent a chill up her spine.

  “Do you think it could be Kimberly’s?” Skye said.

  “Even if she’s dead, I suppose it could’ve been frozen.”

  “But you’re guessing? You don’t have any psychic perception about this?”

  “None. I’m too close to it.” Her impressions came and went at random, anyway. Although her abilities had helped in a few heavily publicized cases, sometimes even she didn’t know if she could trust the brief visions that occasionally intruded into normal thought.

  “There’s still the potential for profiling, isn’t there?”

  Jasmine had a GED and barely thirty credit hours of college, all of which she’d obtained in the two years she’d been married to Harvey, but she read just about everything she could find on deviant behavior and psychological profiling and had become so proficient at it that the FBI occasionally called her in as a consultant. Some people assumed it was her psychic ability that made her so good, but she knew it was primarily an instinctive understanding of human nature and the knowledge she’d gained through self-education that guided her, because she could do it even when she had no discernible psychic response.

  “Yes. This is more about the shock.” Half standing in order to reach it, Jasmine pulled the box across the table. The note was on top of the fridge, where it wasn’t likely to get damaged, and the bracelet was in her jewelry box because she couldn’t bear to look at it. “He’s letting me know he’s the one who took Kimberly,” she said, her finger running over the deep grooves created by the ballpoint pen he’d used to address it. “Without the note, the bracelet could conceivably have come from someone peripherally connected to the abduction. Maybe someone who knows the kidnapper and what he did—a friend, relative or wife who wants to do the right thing but doesn’t dare come forward for fear of reprisal. And…” she hesitated, trying to get a feel for the type of person who’d do something like this “…the blood is to upset me, to let me know he’s serious.”

  “About what?” Skye asked.

  “About stopping him.”

  “That makes it sound like he’s playing games.”

  “It’s not a game; it’s a challenge. He doesn’t have the guts or the willpower to turn himself in. But he knows he needs to be stopped.” The Last Stand was more deeply imprinted in the cardboard than the other words. As her fingers moved over the letters, the impressions Jasmine had thought weren’t there, or were repressed because of her closeness to the victim, suddenly began to flow. She could see the man with the beard—a face she’d long forgotten and despaired of ever describing accurately enough so police could track him down. Although still partially hidden in shadow, as if he stood beneath the shaded eaves of a house, the image took her breath away. “He’s a killer.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She could sense the bloodlust. “Positive.”

  “Does he feel guilty about that?”

  Jasmine was tempted to lift her fingers from the words he’d written, to break the gossamer thread of energy that’d sparked the foreign thoughts and feelings swirling through her. It was frightening, uncharted territory for someone who tolerated, rather than embraced, her psychic gifts. But she couldn’t. She knew this might be her only chance to learn something about this man that would give him away. “Not guilt. That would take empathy.” Closing her eyes, she experienced his confusion, his desire to be like everyone else. “It’s not a cry to ease the pain he’s inflicting on others. It’s a cry to stop the pain he’s feeling himself. It’s all about him. He kills to stop the pain.”

  “What does he get out of hurting others?”

  “A power high. He craves…” The answers were coming, but they were so dark, so frightening, Jasmine’s mind balked. She pulled her hands away and went blank.

  “Attention?” Skye finished.

  “That and recognition, for starters.” Jasmine stared at the box. He’d felt closer than he’d been in the sixteen years since he’d stood in her living room, talking to Kimberly. Too close. It made her queasy, but she retraced the individual letters he’d written, forcing her subconscious to go where it refused. For Kimberly.

  “So you think there are others?” Skye asked.

  The scraggly beard. The bottle-green eyes. The bladelike nose. The baggy, dirty clothes…

  “Jasmine?” Skye prompted when she didn’t answer.

  It was no use. The vision was gone, leaving her with only the memory of it. “What?�
� she said.

  “Do you think he’s kidnapped other children?”

  Covering her eyes with a shaky hand, Jasmine took a deep breath. “Don’t you?”

  “Killers don’t kill everyone they meet. It could be that he’s held Kimberly captive all these years and not taken anyone else. Maybe he wanted a daughter, someone to love him unconditionally, and she filled that need.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Jasmine’s arms. “It had nothing to do with love.” And he wasn’t satisfied, probably could never be satisfied, or why would he need her or anyone else to stop him?

  “He might’ve let her go at some point,” Skye reasoned. “But that doesn’t mean she would’ve come home.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. She was eight when she went missing,” Jasmine said. “Abducted children often begin to feel an attachment to their abductor, to relate and adjust and go on living as if they never had another life.”

  “Maybe he kept her with him until she grew up and now she’s out there…somewhere.”

  A version of her former self but not the same person, Jasmine nearly added, but she couldn’t say that aloud. If she ever had the good fortune to find her sister, that was something she’d think about when and if the time came.

  “Are you going to order a DNA test to see if the blood on that note is similar to yours?” Skye asked.

  “Of course. I’ll use the private lab in L.A. that did so well with the evidence in the Wrigley case.” She’d also have a fingerprint specialist search for latent prints. She doubted they’d get anything from the cardboard box. Too many people had touched it in the process of mailing. And, after three or four days in transit, any prints the sender might’ve left would’ve soaked in too much to be recovered even with chemicals. The tape or the paper itself might give them more….

  “Why not let the police handle it via their own lab? You were living in Cleveland when Kimberly was taken. Doesn’t that give them jurisdiction?”

  “I don’t want to turn what I have over to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the detective who was in charge of the initial investigation is still on the force.” Jasmine stood and went to the window, where she gazed out at the parking lot two stories below. Old trucks, economy cars and an occasional SUV sat beneath the heavy floodlights attached to the building. Her condo wasn’t located in one of the more affluent suburbs of Sacramento. She, Skye and Sheridan took only as much from the charity as they needed to survive, which didn’t allow for an expensive home. But it wasn’t one of the worst neighborhoods, either. She felt safe here, or as safe as she could feel, considering that her work involved opposing so many dangerous people.

  “How do you know?”

  “I checked earlier today.”

  “You don’t think he’s capable of handling the investigation?”

  “My father almost cost the man his job over that ruined tire track evidence.” Ripping a paper towel from the holder at her elbow, Jasmine dabbed at the perspiration that’d broken out on her forehead. “I don’t think he’ll want to reopen the case.”

  “Maybe you could talk his captain into assigning it to someone else.”

  “No, Captain Jones stood by his detective the last time. I’m sure he’ll do it again. And I refuse to work with Castillo.” Jasmine couldn’t abide the thought of relinquishing key evidence to someone she didn’t consider competent. It wasn’t as if the Cleveland police would be open and forthcoming with her. They knew her father’s reputation, the trouble he’d caused. Besides, after working in several capacities on numerous criminal investigations, she felt she was better equipped to do justice by her sister than anyone else. She was more motivated to resolve the kidnapping than an outsider could ever be.

  “What about a private investigator? What about getting Jonathan involved? You know how good he is.”

  “I’ll handle this one myself.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to Louisiana.”

  These words were met with shocked silence. Then Skye said, “But all you have to go on is a cancellation stamp!”

  No, she had more than that. She had his image in her mind, the one she’d conjured out of nowhere when she touched the package. She’d meet with a sketch artist, start circulating a flyer, promise a reward—anything she had to do. Maybe once the shock wore off and she was stronger, she could even plumb the chilling connection she’d felt so briefly.

  That strange vision had convinced her of one thing. The man with the beard knew she could stop him. And that was exactly what she intended to do.

  Even if it was too late for Kimberly.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jasmine had never been to Louisiana. She’d donated money to the recovery effort after Hurricane Katrina and felt terrible about the damage that remained, but only in a general sense. She couldn’t mourn specific losses like someone who’d been familiar with the area as it was before. It was too dark outside to see much, anyway.

  She sat in the backseat of the taxi she’d hired to shuttle her from the airport to the hotel, fidgeting with her purse and wondering if she’d been crazy to come here. She knew next to nothing about New Orleans, had no contacts in this part of the country. How would she ever find the man she was looking for?

  A steady pounding behind her eyes warned of an escalating headache. The plane had been cramped and overheated and the flight had cost her a full day, dumping her halfway across the country after dinnertime. While in the air, she’d been offered only a drink and a small bag of peanuts. She was famished and exhausted. She’d been up all night carefully packaging the box, bracelet and note, and making travel plans that included a stop in Los Angeles so she could hand-deliver those items to the lab, but she hadn’t been able to sleep on the long flight. Far too restless, she’d kept going over the day Kimberly had gone missing, hoping to remember something new or different that might help her now.

  As if she hadn’t done it a million times during the past sixteen years, she replayed those few moments yet again, resting her head on the back of the seat.

  Jasmine hadn’t heard the knock. She’d been lying on the floor in the living room when a man’s slightly scratchy voice overrode the sound of her TV show. Kimberly was talking to him. The comfortable, almost familiar way he behaved signaled that this was just another of her father’s workers or soon-to-be workers, so Jasmine hadn’t bothered to move.

  Where’s your daddy?

  At work.

  When will he be back?

  Not till later. Do you want me to call him?

  No, I can call him from the car.

  The fact that he’d acted as though he knew her father, as though he had Peter’s phone number, had fit with day-to-day life in the Stratford household, so Jasmine had thought nothing of it. But it’d played a major role in the subsequent investigation. Her parents believed Peter had met the man somewhere, that he’d invited him into their sphere of existence. That was part of the reason her mother blamed her father so much. Prior to the incident, Gauri had often complained about so many people coming to the house, but Peter had always teased her out of her concern by calling her Chicken Little. He’d swing her around the kitchen, saying, “The sky is falling, the sky is falling,” in a high-pitched voice as he laughed.

  And then the sky fell….

  Refusing to get caught up in unhappy memories of the arguments that occasionally bordered on violence, and the tears that followed, Jasmine directed her thoughts back to the bearded man at the door, speaking to Kimberly.

  How old are you?

  Eight.

  You’re sure a pretty little girl.

  Jealousy had momentarily flared inside Jasmine at the compliment. She wanted to be told she was pretty, too. Although their father was Caucasian, their mother was from India and both sisters had her thick black hair and golden-brown skin. But Jasmine had wide almond-shaped eyes, which were so startlingly blue that she normally attracted more attention than her younger sister. She would’ve gotten up to b
ask in the praise Kimberly was receiving, but Kevin Arnold was about to have his first kiss with Winnie in The Wonder Years, and she couldn’t pull herself away.

  I can do a cartwheel. Want to watch? Her sister’s voice carried in from the entry hall.

  “Not in the house,” Jasmine had yelled, and that was when the man leaned around the corner to take a look at her, and she’d seen his face.

  You’re babysitting?

  Yep.

  Kimberly had peered into the room, too, but only long enough to stick out her tongue. “She’s being so bossy,” she said. Then she told the man she’d show him her cartwheel on the lawn, and they’d gone out. Pleased that she’d done her duty by making sure her sister didn’t kick over a lamp, Jasmine soon forgot all about the interruption and simply enjoyed the rest of her show. But when the episode ended, the front door was still standing open and Kimberly was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the man.

  Jasmine knew that even if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget having to call her parents to tell them her little sister had gone missing.

  On her watch.

  “Your hotel is on St. Philip Street?” The taxi driver seemed to find that odd.

  Jasmine met his eyes, with their caterpillar-like brows, in the rearview mirror. “That’s what it said on the Web site.”

  “And the name is Maison du Soleil?”

  His accent was French, but not the kind of formal French Jasmine had heard on television. His r’s weren’t spoken in his throat; they were rolled. “That’s right.”

  “Not Maison Dupuy on Bourbon Street.”

  “No.”

  Those bushy eyebrows met. “I have never heard of this hotel, but I am fairly new to the city. Are you certain of the address, my friend?”