Part 3 (1/2)
A hand reached down from somewhere above in the darkness and grabbed the first girl's hair, yanking it painfully up and pulling her to her knees. She was breathing hard through her nose and trying not to cry. If her nose clogged up, she'd smother. The duct tape on her mouth wasn't giving, no matter how she tried to work her jaw to loosen it.
”Hey,” said a rough male voice. ”I told you not to move, get it? Don't move. I can always drug you if you give me trouble. You want to avoid that, you stay still. We need one of you, not both. Either one of you gets cute, you get to watch the other one get hurt. Bad. Understood? Nod.”
The girl nodded, breathing hard. On the floor, the blonde nodded, too, eyes leaking furious tears.
The pressure on the girl's hair released, and she overbalanced and fell hard, banging into the floor face-first. The impact stunned her, and she tasted blood, coppery and hot....
Stefan jerked out of the vision, swallowed, and could still taste the blood. He felt like vomiting. Whoever the girl was, she was controlling her fear, but it was real and immediate. Either one of you gets cute, you get to watch the other one get hurt. He hadn't been able to sense her thoughts at all, only visuals and sensations, but that was enough. More than enough.
He still didn't know where she was, or even if the visions were real time; it could have been something that happened hours ago, or would happen an hour into the future. No time sense to any of it. The van was dark in the interior, and the girl hadn't been able to see....
Wait.
He realized he was still hunched over, clutching the police barricade in both hands, and forced himself to let go and straighten up. He felt sweat trickling down his face, despite the cool night breeze, and wiped his forehead with shaking hands.
As her abductor had jerked the girl up to her knees by the hair, she'd been able to get a brief glimpse out of the front window. The headlights had spilled over a dark empty road, a brilliant yellow line...
...and a road sign.
”She's on Highway 347,” he said to himself. ”She's there now.” Because the view had still been washed with a faint tint of sunset, the far horizon not yet completely dark.
He needed to tell somebody. Anybody.
Stefan pushed through the crowd of bored reporters to the edge of the crime scene, where the uniformed officers were looking even more bored. Forensics was packing up, and the floodlights were going off. They were leaving.
No sign of the brunette detective and her girl; long gone, he guessed. Out the other side, where there were fewer reporters.
”Sir,” he said, and then louder, ”Officer!”
The nearest cop, who'd been speaking with two others, turned to look at him with a dead-eyed stare. ”Stay behind the tape, sir,” he said.
”I am behind the tape. I have-”
”You're leaning over.”
”This is important, I know where they are! The girls!”
He had all their attention now, an uncomfortable weight of it. ”How do you know that, sir?”
”I saw them.”
”Where, sir?”
”In a van, traveling on Highway 347. I don't know if they're going north or south...”
”Back up, sir. How exactly did you see inside the van?”
Oh boy. ”I just know, okay? I know. You need to look for them on Highway 347, and hurry. They probably won't be there long, and those girls are in danger. They're going to get hurt.”
He didn't have to be a psychic to get the sense that the cops were not pleased with his explanation, although they dutifully took down all his contact information-home address, cell phone, everything but his brand of underwear. The male cop stepped forward and looked at Stefan from a height well above six feet. ”You just know,” he said. ”As in, what? You had a dream?”
”A vision, actually,” he said. ”Look, I need to talk to the detectives. I can help!”
The cop nodded, but his face had shut down into an expressionless mask. ”I see. I've got your name and contact information, sir. I'll make sure it gets to the detectives.”
”Highway 347-”
”Yes, sir. We'll follow that up.”
The cop was humoring him. No question about it. Stefan felt a hot burn of rage, but it wouldn't do any good to let it out; he'd get to talk to the detectives, all right, in handcuffs. Not so much a talk as an interrogation, probably.
He needed to talk to Agent Rush.
”Fine,” Stefan said and held up his hands in surrender. ”Just check Highway 347. You know how to find me if you need more information.”
Not that he had any more information, really. The glimpse of the road sign had been a pure gift of luck. It wasn't exactly breaking news that the girl was terrified, or that she was in a van. Or that her friend had purple-streaked hair.
Or that they were in real trouble.
Stefan moved away, furious and frustrated, and tried to decide on his next move. He had no idea where Agent Rush had gone, and had no way to track her down. And he needed to talk to her, he just sensed it. She would listen to what he had to say, if he could just get past that thick defensive sh.e.l.l.
And to do that, she had to want to talk to him.
”Cops giving you a hard time?” asked a cool female voice at his elbow. He turned and saw a pet.i.te blonde dressed from the waist up in an expensive silk s.h.i.+rt and tailored jacket, and from the waist down in blue jeans and flats. She looked styled and coiffed and perfectly made-up.
Television reporter, beyond any doubt.
”A little,” he said.
”I'm sorry, but I overheard what you said to him. You said you had information about the missing girls...? Something about Highway 347?”
He smiled at her. She smiled back. It was purely a professional exchange; there was something about her that put him on his guard, maybe the slightly harsh glitter in her eyes, or the ambition he sensed coming off her in waves. Not a bad person, he sensed, but a driven one. Compulsively needing to win.
He had no idea what game she was playing, but she clearly saw him as some kind of p.a.w.n.
”How do you know I'm not one of the kidnappers?” he asked. Her eyebrows rose, and those brown eyes sparkled even more.
”Are you? Because that would be one h.e.l.l of a story.” She hastily tamped down her excitement. ”Provided the girls were returned unharmed, of course.”
”Of course.” He tried to keep the irony out of his voice. ”I heard they're both students at a local girls' school.”
”Private school,” the reporter said. ”What do you know about the AthenaAcademy?”
”AthenaAcademy?” he repeated blankly. He'd never heard of it. He knew about the G.o.ddess Athena, of course-”Nothing.”
”You weren't called in? Maybe by one of the alumni to help with the investigation?” She seemed to be fis.h.i.+ng for something, dangling bait, but he had no idea what she meant.