Haunted Read online

  Titles by Kay Hooper

  Bishop/Special Crimes Unit Novels

  HAVEN

  HOSTAGE

  HAUNTED

  The Bishop Files

  THE FIRST PROPHET

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2014 by Kay Hooper.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14034-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hooper, Kay, author.

  Haunted / Kay Hooper. — First edition.

  p. cm. — (A Bishop/SCU novel ; 3)

  ISBN 978-0-425-25939-9 (hardback)

  1. Murder—Investigation—Georgia—Fiction. 2. Bishop, Noah (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Government investigators—Fiction. 4. Paranormal fiction. 5. Suspense fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.O587H34 2014

  813'.54—dc23

  2014018334

  FIRST EDITION: September 2014

  Cover photograph by G. Victoria / Shutterstock.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This novel is dedicated to all the unsung heroes who work tirelessly in animal rescue, helping the homeless and helpless, the injured, the neglected, abandoned, and abused, giving voice to those who cannot speak for themselves.

  And in memory of all the shelter animals who, unlike Braden, never got their second chance.

  CONTENTS

  Titles by Kay Hooper

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Special Crimes Unit Agent Bios

  Psychic Terms and Abilities

  Bishop/Special Crimes Unit Timeline

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Once again, and at the request of many readers, I have chosen to place this note at the beginning of the book rather than after the story, so as to better inform you of the additional material I am providing for both new readers and those who have been with the series from the beginning. You’ll find some brief character bios, as well as standard SCU definitions of various psychic abilities, at the end of the book, plus something new, a Special Crimes Unit timeline, information that will hopefully enhance your enjoyment of this story and of the series.

  You’ll also find a second Author’s Note on a subject I care about deeply, which I hope you’ll take the time to read. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Haunted.

  December 12

  The face in the mirror was strange to him, and not only because it was streaked with blood. The blood was the least disconcerting thing he saw, and some deeply buried instinct told him he should have worried a lot more about both the blood and his acceptance of it.

  But he didn’t.

  It was the strange face that worried him. It wasn’t always strange, of course. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and saw familiar features, eyes he knew, a smile that was pleasant and crooked and his own, with no blood marring anything he saw. On those days, he was fine. On those days, he went about the business of living and felt normal.

  But on days like this . . .

  He stared for long minutes at that alien face, the blood streaking it . . . baffled and a little frightened.

  More than a little. Because even though he didn’t think much about the blood, it was there. And yet, the blood almost always disappeared when he closed his eyes and counted to ten and looked again.

  Almost always.

  But when it didn’t disappear, when he had to splash water on his face and even use soap to scrub away the red stains, he had the gnawing certainty that he should be worried about the blood, because it was a sign that even though he couldn’t remember what it was, he had done Something Bad.

  Something Really Bad.

  There were things he needed to remember, and every time he saw that face in the mirror, every time it was bloody and alien to him, he was aware of those unremembered things hovering in the shadows of his mind.

  Desires. No . . . hungers. Needs.

  Terrifying needs.

  On those days, he called in sick and sat in his tiny apartment, furnished in Early Salvation Army, the worn shades drawn, the ancient TV that still had snowy channels on but muted, the sounds of traffic outside a sort of background noise that was unimportant.

  On those days, he sat in the dark and listened to the voices telling him what he had to do. They were very clear, those voices. Very strong. Very sure.

  And, gradually, without his even becoming aware of it, the fear faded away to nothing because he wasn’t alone anymore. The voices were his friends. The voices understood him. The voices told him what he had to do.

  As the days and weeks passed, he was eventually fired for calling in sick too many times so he could be alone in the dark listening to his voices, but by then it hardly mattered. He packed up his meager possessions in his worn duffle bag, left the old apartment building, and set out on foot because he didn’t own a car.

  There was a journey he had to make. And along the way, he had things to . . . understand. Things to . . . practice. And things to plan.

  Still, he wasn’t certain that he was doing the right thing. Not until his path took him higher into the mountains to one of the hiking trails along the Blue Ridge. Once he set foot upon those old, old trails, he felt at home.

  And he knew where he was going.

  South.

  He stopped at one of those places that usually sprang up near the entrances to hiking trails and offered for sale just about anything one would need to hike the trails and paths woven all through the old mountains, and spent most of his money buying the few things he would need.

  He wasn’t worried about money. The Lord would provide.

  There was a crowd of hikers about, stocking up for hikes or taking a break because their journey paused here, or began here. A number of people spoke to him, and he replied politely without making any effort to engage them in conversation.

  Several invited him to jo
in their groups, but virtually all of them were headed north, and that wasn’t where he was being drawn. So he declined, politely, and went on his way before it got too late.

  He was only a little surprised to realize there was a map in his head, that all this was familiar ground. Part of him remembered it very well—and yet to another part of him, it was an alien landscape.

  He traveled only about half a mile before darkness began to fall, and he took the time to set up his little tent and make camp, the skills again both familiar and strange.

  He thought about that as he lay in his sleeping bag in the darkness, listening to the night. He thought about the skills that felt familiar—and the names in his head.

  There were, he knew, people who had to pay.

  That was something he was certain he knew how to do.

  Get justice.

  Be the sword hand of God.

  When he realized that, all his confusion and uncertainty melted away.

  And the plan began to take shape.

  January 23

  Melanie James shook her head and said to one of her best friends, “See, I think you stack the deck when you’re dealing out the cards.”

  “It’s tarot, not poker,” Toby Gilmore objected. “Why would I stack the cards?”

  “To give me the future you want me to have, of course.”

  Toby sighed and looked at the other four people at their large table in the Friday-night-busy restaurant. “Help me out here, will you?”

  Annabel Hunter shook her head solemnly. “Not me. I don’t care if you stack the deck; last week you told me I’d find that ring I lost, and I did the very next day.”

  Xander Roth, dark eyes dancing, said to Melanie, “I’m with you. She cheats. I wasted my money on those lottery tickets.”

  “I warned you about that,” Toby told him. “It’s cheating, and the universe doesn’t like that. Picking lottery tickets or winners in a horse race or anything like that is just not what tarot is for.”

  “Then what is it for?” Scott Abernathy asked. “If the point is to see the future—”

  “That isn’t the point. Always. And even when it is, the future is always fluid, I keep telling you that. You don’t plan your life with tarot, you just . . . let it guide you sometimes.”

  Caleb Lee, the only one at the table not drinking wine or beer, said, “Toby is right; the cards are only tools to help you focus. When you’re centered and calm, then maybe the cards will tell you something helpful. Or maybe not.”

  Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Meditate and concentrate and all good things will come to you. We’ve heard the spiel, Caleb. Again and again.”

  Caleb didn’t appear at all dismayed by the sarcasm. Which didn’t surprise anyone at the table, since he was virtually never dismayed. By anything.

  Toby said, “Listen, I didn’t meant to start a fight or anything. It’s just that I thought reading for Melanie might be a good thing.” She kept her gaze on her friend as she shuffled the cards, smiling. She didn’t look at Scott at all.

  Melanie said dryly, “You’re about as subtle as neon, Toby. Stop trying to give me the happily-ever-after, especially with Scott.” Even to her own ears, that last sentence had the air of flinty finality.

  “Hey,” Scott said, “I thought the group rule was no rehashing over relationships, especially at dinner.”

  Xander said, “Well, you will keep dating all our female friends, and then breaking up with them or pushing them to break up with you. God knows why they keep accepting you, but—”

  Annabel, ever the peacemaker, said, “Can we please not talk about this? Scott and Melanie had a little fight, and the fact that we all know about it just underlines one of the perils of living in a small town. They deserve their privacy, and besides, it really is none of our business.”

  Melanie sipped her wine, trying not to sigh out loud. They’d grown up together, her friends, and at times like this it really showed. She would have preferred her relationship with Scott—not exactly in the distant past—to remain between the two of them, but she had lived in Sociable for nearly three years now, and if she’d learned nothing else, it was that there weren’t many secrets.

  Especially among a group of friends who had played together in the sandbox thirty-odd years ago.

  “It wasn’t a little fight,” Scott said, mildly enough but with a glitter Melanie recognized in his eyes. Despite his earlier words, he was perfectly willing to pick a fight in order to rehash not only that final battle but all the others in their brief but tempestuous relationship.

  She spoke up before he could enlighten the others about whatever they might not already know, saying firmly, “But it was a private fight. Can we keep it that way, please?”

  “Now, see,” Xander said, “that’s just going to make it worse. Because we’ll all be imagining. And whatever we’re imagining is bound to be worse than the truth.”

  “Don’t you have satellite TV to entertain you?” Melanie asked him, rather sharply this time.

  “Yes, but it’s not nearly as much fun.” Xander was a good guy, most of the time, but he did have a streak of mischief in his nature that could be just this side of cruel, Melanie had decided. “I mean, usually it’s Scott’s conquests who get dumped; something he’s generally not as obviously pissed off about as he is right now.”

  “You’re a menace,” Melanie told him.

  “Just calling ’em as I see ’em,” he retorted.

  Scott said to Melanie, “Is that what you’ve been telling everybody, that you dumped me?”

  “I,” Melanie said evenly, “have not been discussing my private relationships. It’s a preference I have. Not unlike the preference to avoid discussions like this one in crowded restaurants.”

  “Ouch,” Xander murmured.

  “I don’t get dumped,” Scott said, a bit louder than he’d intended.

  Or not.

  “Fine,” Melanie said, “you dumped me. Happy?” The matter was clearly so unimportant to her that it caused Scott to flush a rather ugly shade of red.

  “I don’t think he’s happy,” Xander noted helpfully.

  With uncharacteristic fierceness, Annabel said, “Scott, can you please pack away your ego and just let it go? You were no more serious about Melanie than you were about Toby—or about Trinity. Notches on your belt—”

  “Speaking as one of the notches, I should probably resent that. But what the hell.” Trinity Nichols joined the others, sliding in next to Annabel in the booth seating that enabled them all to fit around the big table. “Who knows—we all may hang in the Smithsonian one day, in the wing of Famous Conquests.”

  Toby noted Scott’s lingering flush and wondered in satisfaction if he was finally catching on to the fact that the women who passed through his life and fleetingly shared his bed did so far more often on their terms than on his. Whatever he thought otherwise.

  Xander laughed, but reached across the table to offer Trinity wine for the empty glass their attentive waiter had placed before her. “Off duty?” he asked.

  “Yeah. And I could use a drink.”

  Xander poured her wine but was unusually serious when he asked, “Trouble?”

  “Not local.” She shook her head, as usual a bit hesitant to share the burdens of being sheriff of Crystal County with her childhood friends, even though the lifelong habit of sharing—even sharing Scott, as it turned out—was difficult to break. “It’s just that usually this time of year, the dead of winter, we don’t get reports of missing hikers along the Blue Ridge. That’s rough country, and in winter fairly miserable even this far south. Hikers are usually spring to fall.”

  Toby lifted a brow at her friend. “You said not local?”

  “No, it isn’t. Or—they aren’t, rather. Four young women reported missing from the general area of western North Carolina to just north of us. That’s a fairly small span of the Blue Ridge, even though it’s thousands of acres, and a little too close to home for my peace of mind.”
r />   “All hikers?” Caleb asked.

  “In two cases, it seems certain they are—or were. Hiking with friends, supposedly just a day’s outing during that warm spell we had around Christmas, so not that unusual; in a rough winter, people want to get out when the weather’s unexpectedly good. Except that according to their friends, they were there one moment and gone the next.”

  “All four went missing, then?” Scott asked, making a clear effort to be casual.

  “First two, just after Christmas, on the twenty-seventh. The latest two sometime between yesterday and today.”

  “Both today? I mean, were they together?”

  Trinity sipped her wine and nodded. “Apparently together when they went missing, but no witnesses. Still far enough north that the search is being concentrated miles away, with some very rough terrain between here and there. But these latest two . . . Not really hikers, or so it seems. They were together, on their way home from a ski trip, and stopped to pull their car off on one of the lookout points, apparently to take in the view. And the state police found the car today, this afternoon—two days after family members insisted they had left the ski lodge forty miles away and headed for home.

  “They had no supplies except a couple of bottles of water and a few granola bars. Neither was even wearing hiking boots, and all the warm clothing they had taken to ski in was still packed in their luggage. According to the checkout desk at the lodge, when they left there, they weren’t really dressed for overnight in the mountains.”

  “Dumb,” Scott said.

  “Maybe they found shelter,” Annabel suggested, hope in her voice.

  Sheriff Trinity Nichols swirled the wine in her glass and watched as it caught the light. “Maybe. Except they weren’t supposed to be there to hike, so why get very far from the car at all? A report came in just as I was leaving the office. Search dogs found a shoe belonging to one of the girls. About five hundred yards from the lookout, and heading straight up a mountain. No footprints or other signs the girls were in the area. And as far as the dogs were concerned, the trail ended there.”