Psychic Killer: 9/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter Thirteen
Alan Westover stepped from the little skiff that had delivered Lyn, Colonel Blake and himself back to the Maui. A little over an hour had passed since he had embarked from the pier on the opposite side of the island. He hoped that all had gone well for Mark while he and the others had been absent. Despite his partner's psychic abilities, Alan knew that Linley was relatively inexperienced with their use. In the training sessions, his partner had proven surprisingly adept with his new powers, and he recalled Mark's theory -- pooh-poohed by the "experts" at the base -- that he had been learning from Alan without knowing it for all the years of their partnership. Still, practice and actual experience were two different things. Alan hoped he would stay out of trouble.
Wanda's communicator beeped. She glanced at Alan and lifted the device to her lips. "Blake here."
"Colonel Blake," a voice said. "This is Fergusen. We have an update on the Cardew case. A unit was sent to pick up Kelly Bauer. The apartment was unlocked and the girl is gone. Witnesses report that she left with a man matching Cardew's description. The car is described as a late model Meteor, blue or green in color. No license plate number available."
Wanda acknowledged, briefly. She turned to Alan. "Cardew, again."
But, Alan wasn't listening. He had been subliminally aware of it for several seconds, a mental cry, wordless and terrified, coming rapidly closer. Now, it burst on his consciousness full force. A woman, he thought, and frightened almost into incoherence. A female psychic in desperate fear, sending out an instinctive call for help to any other psychic within reach of her mind. Alan reached out toward that wordless scream, found the tendrils of thought and followed them back to the mind that had originated it.
In an instant he found the mind; his psychic power flashed through the telepathic channels in her brain, and he was there, looking out through her eyes at the controls of an aircar. And, there was someone in the seat beside him.
Mental control was a rare talent. Alan's had been limited in scope to animals less intelligent than a human until circumstances had arisen where he had discovered that the limitation was one of training, not ability. He still had limitations, but now, he knew how to work around them. **
He turned his head -- or made a suggestion to the girl to turn hers. A man sat there, a blaster trained directly on her. He grinned sardonically, and Alan recognized him. It was the fire dancer from the hotel, whom he had last seen stretched on the ground.
"Head for the docks," he said. "Take the skystream."
The girl's hands went through the motions. "Why are you doing this?" she quavered.
"You're my ticket off this island, baby. The cops are looking for me, by now."
"But ... why?"
His sardonic grin widened. "For murder, sweetheart. And you're my insurance."
Insurance, Alan thought. But, once away from the island, the girl would be a hindrance -- until Cardew decided to dispose of her.
The car plunged into the skystream; undetectably, Alan inserted directions into the girl's mind. The car would come here, to the dock where he, Lyn and Wanda waited.
"I've got police units on the way," Wanda reported. "I think he's going to get here first."
"He is," Alan said, briefly. "But, I can't have her stall him. He'll spot it. We'll have to handle it, ourselves. Lyn, you be ready to block him if he tries to shoot anyone."
"I'll do my best," she said. "I'll have to be fairly close, though. Let's get to cover," she added. "In the skiff. Below the level of the dock."
They ran back to the skiff, Alan still keeping his contact with Kelly Bauer firm. Cardew was speaking again.
"You turn me on, sweetheart. You're afraid of me. I like girls to be afraid of me."
Kelly glanced at him, at the swollen, bruised jaw. "It looks to me," she said, unexpectedly, "as if somebody else didn't like it. I hope it hurts!"
His grin turned into a grimace of bared teeth. "It does. And you're going to pay for it, sweet thing. Your sister's boyfriend did it."
Kelly's heart probably couldn't race any harder if it tried, Alan thought. He hoped she would keep her head.
Cardew chuckled. "I'm going to like that, baby. I don't like getting hurt."
That figured, Alan thought.
The pier was coming into view, he saw in Kelly's mind. Half under the pier, the skiff was out of sight, but another sled, a touring model designed for tour groups to view the undersea wonders of New Hawaii's oceans, floated at its moorings a short distance to the right. Kelly brought the aircar down toward it, Alan as conscious as she of the blaster trained unwinkingly on her.
A security guard by the boathouse turned and looked up at the sound of the approaching car, and with a start, Alan recognized John Winston. The man drew a stunner from his hip and started toward them as the car jolted to an ungraceful landing on the boards.
"No, John, get back! He's got a blaster!" The voice was Kelly's but the words were Alan's. He felt the blow as Cardew struck her across the mouth, then dragged her forcibly from the aircar.
"Shut up!" Cardew propelled her roughly toward the tour sled. "One more peep out of you and I'll kill you! Get in!"
Winston retreated a step. "Okay, mister, take it easy. If you want the sled, take it, but let the girl go."
"Not on your life." Cardew thrust Kelly into the sled, careful to keep her between himself and the guard. Alan heard him cursing as the motor sputtered uncooperatively. Then, all at once, on a loud "pop!", and a roar, the engine came abruptly to life, and the tour sled lunged forward, almost sending Cardew overboard.
His cursing became more imaginative. Carefully, Alan reached from his stepping stone in Kelly Bauer's brain toward Cardew.
He had never done anything of the sort before -- he wasn't even sure what he was trying to accomplish was possible. Dimly, he felt motion and knew that their own sled was moving. From two perspectives at once, Kelly's and his own, he saw his quarry turn and look back toward them.
The man's mind was wide open, but as he reached for the control centers, he felt realization blaze through Cardew's awareness and shields, clumsy and inexpertly held, but shields nonetheless, slammed into position, thrusting him away. The man was a psychic, all right, even if only partially trained.
"Who's that?" Cardew's voice in Kelly Bauer's ears, held a tinge of hysteria.
"Who's *who*?" Kelly gasped.
She hadn't been aware of him, he thought, or of what he had been trying to do. The girl had no knowledge of her psychic powers at all. But, Cardew did. On the other hand, with his shields up, he couldn't sense what Alan was doing.
"That's the Terran Underground, Cardew!" Alan said, through Kelly.
He spun toward her, his face white. "*How did you know my name?*"
"Never mind. That's the Terran Underground, coming for you. " Kelly gestured past his shoulder. "They know who you are, and *what* you are! If you kill me, you'll never be free of them! They'll hunt you down, wherever you go!"
"You're lying!"
"Don't be stupid. How else would I know what you are?"
They were almost within range for Lyn, now. Almost. Just a little closer.
"Shut up!" Cardew snarled. "Just shut up or I'll kill you!"
Alan/Kelly laughed in his face. "You can't kill me! You need me! If they catch you, they'll kill you, unless you have a hostage!"
Wildly, Cardew glanced over his shoulder at the pursuing boat and Alan/Kelly leaped for the side.
Cardew swung around, made a grab for her wrist and slipped on a wet spot on the unsteady deck. Kelly Bauer went over the side and Cardew's blaster spoke sharply.
Alan saw it happen, but he had been expecting it. The blaster bolt exploded in midair and vanished. Kelly's mind went numb with the shock of complete surprise and the dark, choppy water closed over her head.
She surfaced, flailing out with her arms. Alan could feel her panic and realized quite suddenly that the girl could not swim. From somewhere came the crack of a blaster. An engine roared and a huge wave hurled her sideways. Their own boat was pulling up close to the floundering girl, and Alan found himself reaching outward to seize Kelly Bauer by her thick, chestnut hair.
"Easy, Kelly, grab my hand. You're safe, now."
Wet fingers grabbed his, and he released her hair and gripped her wrist with his free hand. Lyn reached past him to grasp her by her belt and half heave, half drag her over the side. The short struggle left them all more or less damp, but when it ended, Kelly Bauer crouched, trembling and shivering, in the bottom of the skiff.
Wanda wheeled the craft around sharply and made for the pier. Overhead, police aircars screamed past in pursuit of the fleeing sled.
Alan sat back, breathing hard. The easy part was over. The more difficult part, the explanations, remained. He lifted a thumb to his wife.
"Nice intercept, honey," he said.
**********
Chapter Fourteen
*Very neatly done, kid,* Mark Linley's voice said in Alan's brain.
*Mark! Were you listening in the whole time?* Alan was in the rear seat of a ground car with Lyn and Wanda Blake, on their way to the Trade Winds Hotel.
*Yep. Didn't want to butt in, though. You looked like you had all you could do without me handin' out advice. What happened to Cardew?*
Alan gave a mental shrug. *I don't know,* he admitted. *I was so busy trying to calm Kelly down and explain, that I forgot to ask.*
*He got away,* Wanda's mind broke in. *The aircars had to turn back because of the storm winds. It's expected to hit us in a couple of hours.*
*Maybe the storm will take care of him for us,* Mark said, unfeelingly. *That's one guy I wouldn't be sorry to see dead. Anyway, you got us a new psychic for the Underground and I got some things to report. There's been a few developments since you left.*
Alan felt a tingle of apprehension. *What?*
*We got us one helluva murderer, that's sure -- and it ain't that Cardew guy.*
Linley began to talk, and Alan listened with growing alarm. Good grief! His partner had managed to stir up a good-sized hornet's nest during their absence. He mastered the urge to expostulate. Linley had handled the situation with his usual efficiency and he wouldn't appreciate any implied doubts of his ability by Alan. In any case, Alan couldn't possibly have arrived in time to help, and Mark was undoubtedly just as anxious to prove himself a competent psychic as he had been in the beginning.
As Mark wound up his report, Wanda whistled, softly. *That's some psychic, all right, Mark. And if what you think is true, this is even more serious than we thought.*
*I'm certain of at least that one point. I felt that mind, remember. I couldn't identify *who* it was; we'll have to figure that out from other clues, I guess -- but I guess that's good, 'cause whoever it was probably couldn't identify me, either. There wasn't enough of a mind touch. The rest of it ...* there was the effect of a shrug in Mark's mental voice, *well, at least now we know what to look for. Let's keep the plan on track for now -- with a few modifications.*
*I'll say!* Wanda sounded awed. *By the way, I got a report on Osgood's autopsy. He died of drowning. Except for those bruises, there were no marks of violence on the body, and the bruises aren't definitive. Not consistent with strangulation.* A pause. *Actually, that backs up your theory, Mark. Our murderer wouldn't have wanted to let on that it was a murder, and a drowning in the hot tub would have been believable. The body temperature was 27 degrees C -- odd, since the hot tub was considerably above that. Greene also received your package, and that backs up your suspicion, as well.*
*It fits the pattern, all right,* Lyn agreed. *I remember the color of the swimwear on Trithvor Beach on Corala. No one would have noticed Osgood's. Too conservative.*
*Yeah. My idea exactly,* Linley said. *Look, let's cut this conversation short. We don't want to push our luck.*
*Be careful, Mark.*
*You know it, buddy.* Linley's communication ceased.
"I think," Alan remarked, only half-whimsically, "that I should have put *him* in charge of the investigation! Man, what a development!"
**********
Mark Linley cut communication with his partner, still scanning carefully for traces of that malevolent psychic mind. Nothing.
He pondered that for several seconds. There had been absolutely no sign of the enemy psychic since that attempt to kill him. Was it possible that the energy bolt took so much power that his quarry couldn't threaten him for the time it took to recharge? -- however long that might be.
He could take nothing for granted, of course. He wouldn't begin to relax until the psychic was neutralized.
It was while he was scanning that he heard it, for the second time in an hour. The frantic, telepathic cry of a psychic in desperate fear. Only, this one was close!
He was on his feet before he thought, and out the door. He turned left, following that silent call for help, past the lift and toward the gymnasium. The huge room was dimly lit, now, the various pieces of athletic equipment looming like formless monsters in the shadows. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he sprinted across the cavernous space.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a flicker of motion, but it was only an impression. A quick glance showed him nothing, and if there was anyone, the echoes of his progress concealed any footsteps. He crossed the floor at a run and pulled open the door of the low-grav room.
And nearly fell through as mighty G-forces yanked him forward.
He caught the doorframe, bracing himself. Jim Francois lay prone on the floor, flattened by gravity that must measure at least six times earth-normal.
"Hang on!" Mark yelled, and managed to close the door. Freed from the mighty pull of the room by the door's gravity shield, he leaped to the control box on the wall.
The safety lock had been destroyed, the pinhole of a needle beam right through the casing and the delicate electronic parts it protected. He opened it, fumbling in his haste. The safety had been disconnected, he saw at a glance, the innards exposed, wires dangling. A fast, effective job by someone who knew what he was doing.
Undergrounders, he thought, at least those involved with espionage activities, all knew the basics. The gravity control was pushed all the way to the right, past the ineffective safety, jacking the gravity up as high as possible. Mark reached in and moved the indicator back into the green zone. The intense hum of the mechanism faded to a nearly inaudible sound.
In two steps he was back at the door, pulling it open again. Jim still lay on the floor, but he was no longer flattened by outrageous gravity. As Mark knelt beside him, he stirred, trying to lift his head.
"You okay, Jim?"
Francois groaned and pushed himself up on his elbows.
"Mark!" he wheezed. "My God! I thought I was dead!"
"What happened?"
Francois made it to hands and knees. "I was playing low-grav handball when the field suddenly came on. It shoved me down hard. If I had been in the air, I would have been killed!"
"You weren't in the air," Linley repeated.
"I was on the ground, getting ready to jump." He managed to shove himself into a sitting position, with Linley's help. "My ankle hurts like the devil."
Mark started to rise. "I'm going to call the manager's office and have them send a security team and a doctor. Sit still. That ankle looks lousy."
Francois cried out suddenly, a wordless warning, a bare instant before Linley sensed it. Someone was outside the door, someone whose mind was a perfect and complete blank.
The gravity hit. His knees buckled beneath him and he fell flat. Francois gave a strangled groan and went prone on the floor again.
Smashed against the hardwood surface, his breath coming short, pain screaming along his nerves, Linley reached with his mind toward the presence, trying to "see" it. His clairvoyance, hampered by the tremendous physical stress, was fuzzy, obscured by the enemy's mind shields. He sensed the physical presence, a flash of anger and hostility leaking through imperfectly held shields, then the presence faded and was gone. Dimly, Mark was aware of Alan's voice, shouting something in his mind. He forcibly ignored the distraction and reached with all his telekinetic strength for the gravity control.
He could barely reach it, barely touch it with his groping mental fingers. Jim Francois' mind was close to his, wide open and shouting for help. Sudden memory jolted him.
"Jim!" he croaked. "Help me! Reach for the control box! Pull on the green wire! Hurry!"
A moment of blank surprise, then his straining mind was joined by another. The telekinetic power of Jim Francois reinforced his own.
The wire resisted beneath his mental fingers. His strength was ebbing rapidly and sparks danced before his eyes. He tasted blood. It felt as if an elephant were sitting on his chest. The wire held.
"Pull, Mark!" The words were a breathy, agonized gasp. "Pull!"
Well, if little Jim Francois wasn't giving up, neither was he. Linley strained at the wire, forcing unconsciousness back by sheer willpower. Give, damn you! Give!
The wire gave. The terrible, crushing weight was gone.
"Jim?" he croaked. "You all right?"
"Yeah." It was hardly more than a wheeze.
Slowly, Mark rolled over and got to his feet. The movement bounced him into the air. The gravity was barely a sixth of normal, now. Mark half-floated to the door and grasped the frame.
*Alan!* He called his partner's name. *I'm all right!*
*What happened?* Alan's mental voice demanded.
*Explain later. I'm kind of busy!* Mark exited the room, feeling his muscles twinge as full gravity returned. It was like climbing a very steep step. With slightly unsteady movements, he made it to the control box and switched it off. He heard Francois yip as his weight altered suddenly, again.
"It's all right, Jim. It's just me." Linley made his way back into the low-grav room. Jim was propped up on his elbows, breathing harshly. Linley went to one knee beside him, one eye on the open door. "I'll give you a hand. Easy, now."
Francois sat up with Mark's assistance. "Mark!" he rasped. "You're a psychic! I don't believe it!"
"Well, just forget it again," Mark said. "Synthetic control factor. Top secret, Armageddon Class, burn-before-reading stuff. You'll have to get a limited briefing, later, but don't talk about it."
"Consider it forgotten." Francois gave him an unsteady grin. "Let's get out of here now, before that guy comes back."
"I read you loud and clear, Colonel." Mark helped the man up.
Francois balanced on one foot. "I think it's broken."
Mark surveyed the swelling ankle. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised. Hold still." With care, he lifted the little man in his arms and strode toward the door.
There were no sounds in the shadowy room, now. Mark could see no trace of motion as he hurried toward the exit and the corridor outside was still deserted. They headed for the bank of elevators and paused before it. It sensed their approach and a few seconds later, one of them slid open.
Travis Dean appeared around the corner of the hallway that led to his room. He saw Francois, and Linley felt the newcomer's shields snap shut.
"What's happened?" Dean hurried toward them. "Colonel Francois, are you hurt?"
Francois surveyed Dean with disfavor. "Someone was playing with the controls of the low-grav room. Nearly killed us."
Dean looked genuinely shocked. "You're joking! Who would do such a thing?"
"Presumably," Jim said, acidly, "the same person who took a shot at me, two days ago. Where have *you* been in the last twenty minutes, Colonel?"
Dean went scarlet. "I was taking a nap in my room!"
"It seems to me you take a lot of naps!" Francois snapped. "You're always conveniently asleep whenever a murder attempt takes place! And you snapped your shields up fast when you saw me, too!"
Dean began to sputter. "How *dare* you! Do you want me to lower my shields? I will!" His shields went down.
His mind was about as Mark expected it to be, although he had never sensed it before. Travis Dean was a rigid, unyielding martinet, with narrow definitions of right and wrong, normal and abnormal. He hated psychics, and distrusted them, deeply. They were odd, perverted little people, with abnormal powers no Terran should possess. Farther down, but not so far that Mark couldn't see it, lurked fear and outright revulsion. Just being around Terran psychics gave him the creeping willies, but he wouldn't hurt them. Murder was wrong, in spite of what they were.
Mark felt his hackles lifting. Being a psychic wasn't all fun and games, that was certain. Francois turned away; Linley could feel his body tense in his hold.
"Get me away from him, Mark," he said, in a choked voice.
Linley understood. Without a word, he entered the lift and directed it to take them to the second level. Behind him, he felt the sensations of anger and revulsion intensify, then Dean's shielding closed.
Francois let out his breath. "He hates us, Mark."
"I know. I could sense it, too. Remember?"
"I'd forgotten that, remember?" Francois made a feeble joke.
"Oh, yeah. Right."
"But he *isn't* a murderer. I wish he was. I'd rather it was him than someone else around here."
"I know what you mean," Mark said, thoughtfully.
The lift slid to a halt and Linley exited toward the left, following signs toward the hotel emergency clinic. A nurse, in uniform, glanced up from a desk as they entered and rose to her feet.
"What happened?"
"My friend hurt his ankle in the low-grav room," Mark said. "Might be busted." It was, but he couldn't tell her that. "Where do you want him?"
"In there." The nurse pointed to a small, examining room. "I'll be there in a minute." She reached for the videophone on the desk.
Linley took Francois to the room and set him on the examining table. "Jim," he said, quietly, but sternly, "I told you earlier to stay with other people. What the devil were you doing in the gym, alone?"
Francois shrugged, uncomfortably. "Sorry, Mark. I needed to get away. That blasted steering committee had me about pulling my hair out. I really thought no one had seen me."
"Don't assume such a thing again, dammit!"
Francois hung his head. "I won't, sir."
"You damn well nearly got us both killed through disobedience to orders!"
"I know," Jim said, meekly.
"And, if I wasn't so glad you're okay, I'd put you on report for such a fool stunt! And, by God, if you *ever* do such a thing again --"
"I won't, sir." Francois met his eyes steadily. "Thanks. I owe you my life."
Linley sighed. Damn empaths! They even used their talents on each other. "Okay, forget it. Here comes the nurse. I've got to leave; there's some things I have to do."
"Okay." Francois cocked his head. "What happened to your accent, Mark? It used to be much thicker."
Linley grinned. "I've been working on it. I'm glad to see it's showin' -- showing -- results."
"It is. Be careful, Mark. Whoever this guy is, he must be a real nutcake."
The nurse entered the treatment room. Linley exited and headed for the door to the corridor. Francois' voice spoke suddenly in his mind.
*Good luck, Mark.*
*Thanks.* Mark grinned to himself as he went out. It was nice to be part of the in-group of psychics, able to communicate telepathically at will. The thought passed quickly, crowded out by all the others.
The rest of the conference members would be assembling for dinner about now. With Jim conveniently out of the way, this might be the perfect time for a little psychic snooping.
He went to the lift and let the conveyance carry him to the first level. The dinnertime crowd was entering the Molokai when he arrived. Mark stopped outside the restaurant and extended a quick, mental scan, thinking with some surprise, how automatic the use of his psychic abilities had become. Almost without effort, he picked out the unshielded minds of his acquaintances. This was the world of the psychic, such a different world from that which ordinary, everyday persons lived in. It was easy, now, to understand how Jilectans might come to consider non-psychics as less than people. If he'd grown up in their culture, he'd doubtless have felt the same, and would have fought the threat of Terran psychics just as vigorously.
The big difference, of course, was the high percentage of empaths among Terran psychics, compared to the extremely low incidence among Jilectans, which made it highly unlikely that Terran psychics, as a group, could ever become oppressors of their non-psychic brethren.
Of course, there were exceptions, like Cardew had been. Briefly, he wondered how many psychic criminals were running around, using their talents for illicit purposes. It would be a terrific temptation in a largely non-psychic world.
Lieutenant Greene appeared beside him. "Colonel --"
"Yeah?"
Greene spoke softly. "New information. Justin Cardew has left the island. He tried to take a hostage, but the hostage escaped. The pursuing police cars had to turn back. There's a storm moving in."
Linley nodded. Alan had reported all this -- good grief, had it been less than an hour before? It felt like several lifetimes.
"The storm is expected to hit us within the hour," Greene continued. "Cardew's probably already in the middle of it."
"Let's hope the storm does the rest of the job for us," Linley commented. "Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. This Fiske guy. We've done some more research into his background. He used to live in Osterlak, some six years ago. He had a daughter by the name of Sheila, about seventeen or so, who was dating a man named Jones. She was found beaten to death --"
"Ah," Mark said. "I begin to see a connection."
"Yes, sir. Jones was never found, and the case was eventually dropped. I got the records. Jones is Fink -- or Cardew -- no doubt of that."
"Guy seems to make a habit of this, doesn't he?" Mark said.
"He sure does. No doubt Mr. Fiske can tell us more, when he's able."
"Well," Mark said, "if a guy killed *my* daughter, I'd be after him. It wouldn't surprise me if something like that were going on."
"Me, either." Greene hesitated. "You don't seem very interested in this."
Mark gave him a grin. "Sure, I'm interested, but I already knew some of it. The girl he took hostage -- Kelly Bauer -- is a psychic. I'm glad she was saved, but I don't think Cardew had anything to do with our problems, here."
"You don't, huh? He's a murderer, and the General reported he's a psychic, as well. Why isn't he a suspect?"
Linley hesitated. "Uh -- look, Lieutenant, I'll be able to tell you a lot more in an hour or so -- as soon as I'm sure. I'd like you to stick around, with some of your men. Tough ones. I might need you."
"All right. I can have some men here in a few minutes."
"Good. Like I said, be sure they're ready for trouble, and be sure they're *our* people, with mind shields. I'll explain more as soon as I know more."
Greene nodded, and Linley sensed apprehension, mixed with mild resentment, but he merely said, "Yes, sir."
Mark snapped his fingers. "I nearly forgot. Better notify Pahaui that the gravity equipment in the sixth floor low-grav room is out of order, and you better have somebody check out the grav control there. There was another attempt to kill Jim Francois a short time ago. I'll give you the full details, later." He nodded casually to Greene, ignoring the expression on his face, and entered the restaurant. After a short wait, the hostess approached him.
"I'm with the convention," Mark told her. "Admiral Weaver's party."
The hostess smiled and escorted him to the roped-off area reserved for the conventioneers.
**********
** The event referred to in this section occurred in Rescue Mission, which I'll post at a later date.
